


| C A R N O P H I L I A |

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Arguing, Atmospheric, Awkward Boners, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Awkward Dates, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Kissing, Awkwardness, Bad Decisions, Bad Flirting, Blood, Blood and Gore, Breakfast, Bugs & Insects, Catholic!Walter, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Class Differences, Class Issues, Coming In Pants, Coming Out, Coming Untouched, Coney Island, Consent Issues, Cooking, Creepy, Dan can be creepy without meaning to be, Dan romanticizes the working class, Fear, First Kiss, First Meetings, Food, Food Kink, Food Porn, Forehead Touching, Gross, Guilt, Hate to Love, Holidays, Hollis being a helpful stand-in father figure, Hot Chocolate, Illustrated, Illustrations, Impotence, Inappropriate Behavior, Inappropriate Erections, Indie Music, Inspired by Music, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Minor Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, One-Sided Attraction, Operas, Opposites Attract, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pretentious, Rage, Restaurants, Routine, Scents & Smells, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Shame, Socially Awkward Walter, Talking, Tea, Third Wheels, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Behavior, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Crush, Violence, Virginity, Vomiting, Walter has ALL OF THE ISSUES ALL OF THE TIME, Walter has issues, Walter says something anti-Semitic at one point, Workplace, You Have Been Warned, alley masturbation, butcher shop, butcher!Walter, butchery, competitive!Dan, customer!Dan, dry spell!Dan, entitlement, feeling someone up without asking first, frightened!Dan, garbage, horny!Dan, judgemental!Walter, lonely!Dan, meat - Freeform, molecular gastronomy, more bigoted comments from Walter, more snobbish comments from Dan, non mask!AU, paternal!Hollis, politically incorrect!Walter, raw meat, rich people coffee makers, scary!Walter, secular!Dan, that are totally dates even if Walter says they're not, virgin!Walter, wingman!Hollis, working through issues together, writer!Dan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter Kovacs takes his job as a butcher's assistant very seriously. Dan Dreiberg finds himself fascinated by the strange man who works in the back at the local butcher shop... (an AU, obviously)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. S I R L O I N

**Author's Note:**

> Well, at last, I am writing more Watchmen fic. Aparently the only way to follow 'kidney stone porn' was with 'butchery kink porn'. Ah well. I hope you guys enjoy this. Mostly I'm writing it to get the images of butcher!Walter out of my head.
> 
> If you must blame this on something, blame the Maroon 5 'Animals' video. That thing turned a minor interest of mine into a full-blown obsession. Butcher shops, man... damn.

* * *

S I R L O I N

The Petersons’ butcher shop was not in a nice neighborhood, was not convenient for Daniel Dreiberg, who nevertheless made his way there almost weekly to get fresh meat. For men like him, it was always a matter of principle. The butcher who ran it was the last of the old-time, mom-and-pop generation. His wife did the accounts and his teenaged daughter rang all the totals up at the till and was always sure to double-bag Daniel’s purchases so they didn’t leak on the way home. They were pleasant, hardworking people, and Daniel undoubtedly liked to think that, in his small way, he was supporting them, keeping their spirits up and their dreams alive.

Of this much, Walter Kovacs was sure, and it was enough for him to dislike Mr. Dreiberg with an intensity he reserved for the world's most intolerable people.

Walter worked in the back. He tried to pay little attention to customers like Mr. Dreiberg. The rich, self-important types, who acted like their patronage was an act of charity. He focused his attention on the regulars, the locals, like old Missus Flaherty who always bought the smallest, cheapest cuts she could with her meagre pension, stowing the wrapped parcels away in a hideous floral handbag that smelled of must. Walter would not say he felt anything particular towards her, personally, yet he was always sure to slip a bit of bone into the package – something for her tiny, cross-eyed, shivering Yorkshire terrier, Buttons? Bobbins? She had always walked it in view of his apartment window. He’d been watching the wretched creature produce watery stools on the cracked, dirty sidewalk across the street for years. He supposed it was some sense of grudging loyalty that made him want to check each day at the same time that the rickety little duo had made it safely up and down the block, yet he would never see himself as a man who cared for others, generally speaking.

He cared about meat itself, about making sure that each portion was perfect, that each cut was obtained with care. He took his job seriously.

Men like Dreiberg didn’t take anything seriously.

For one thing, they were lazy, rich and spoiled, with personal chefs and illegal immigrants to prepare their meals, while all Walter had was a hotplate that hadn’t worked properly in months. Not that Walter was envious of such men, with such hedonistic lifestyles. He was perfectly satisfied with his hotplate, even if it did make his food heat up unevenly. Hardship built character. Better to have cold food and be worth something as a human being than to have a warm, 8-course meal and be a moral degenerate.

Another thing about the Dreibergs of the world, which made Walter’s job much more annoying than it had to be, was that they were unpredictable.

Good customers were not unpredictable.

For example, Mr. Tanner, the widower, always used to buy short ribs for himself and his late wife. Every Christmas, he would order a turkey, and Mrs. Tanner would give Walter a fruit cake that he would pick away at until late January, long after it dried out and got stale. After the woman of the house had passed, Mr. Tanner kept on buying short ribs, but fewer. Walter admired that. Consistency, without waste. Men like Dreiberg asked for new things each time they visited, inspired by some cooking program on television, no doubt. New and inventive ways to ruin good meat. Walter cooked his with minimal seasoning, and ate it with boiled potatoes. He was wary of things like ‘micro gastronomy’ and ‘liquid nitrogen’ and other such cheap parlor tricks. Good, perhaps, to disguise produce of poor quality. An insult to anything else.

He didn’t take well to working front-of-shop. He found the white tile, like the shine on the front counter, to be too bright, too artificial. He preferred the organic marbled slabs of red, hanging from their slowly swaying hooks, and dull yellow-grey walls of the back room. The rust-rimmed drain in the middle of the floor, the air conditioning that buzzed like a swarm of hungry flies. Walter was at home there.

Mr. Peterson, the owner, knew better than to force Walter out of this particular environment, and better still, to leave well enough alone. He once went so far as to change from the dim light of incandescent light bulb to the blueish-white of a tightly-curled florescent. Walter had called in sick for a week. When he’d returned, his message had been heard loud and clear, and the old, round bulbs were back.

No, there was no room in Walter’s world for men like Daniel Dreiberg. He would do his best to serve him nonetheless, for he was proud of his work, and did not put out anything less than perfection. But he would not do anything more for a man like that. He would not slip a bone into his parcel, or attend the funeral of his wife.

He would cut the meat, and he would package it, and he would send it out the hanging plastic slats that marked the boundary where his territory imposed upon the wider world, but that was all that he would ever do, and it was more than Daniel Dreiberg and his lot deserved.

He muttered as much under his breath as he stared down at the beautiful tenderloin the irritable man had requested. No doubt he’d ruin it with some absurd sauce or foreign spice. Walter shook his head. Such waste.

Mr. Peterson appeared in the doorway.

“We’re about ready to open up shop.”

Walter grunted in response, wrapped up the portion, and placed it with the other orders for the day. He gathered them up and, wordlessly, shoved them into Peterson’s arms.

Peterson opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and departed with a quiet “Right.”

Walter wiped his hands on the rag he kept folded over his apron’s tie, and returned to his post.


	2. S H O R T   L O I N

* * *

S H O R T   L O I N

“Wow, Dan, this looks delicious! You seriously made this yourself?”

Dan Dreiberg smiled, feeling completely satisfied with the plates he set down on the table. Two beautiful porterhouse steaks, each with a nice sear, cooked to a perfect medium rare. He knew it was perfect because he’d left nothing to chance – he’d used a thermocouple-probe-and-meter set-up to ensure an ideal cooking temperature was maintained throughout. The result: a steak that any man would be proud to serve to a beautiful lady.

Judging by the look on Laurie’s face, it had all been worth it.

“What are these little red things on the side?” she asked, nudging the tiny pile of translucent pearls with her fork.

“They’re red wine caviar – didn’t they turn out great? They’re so fun to make – basically, you need a syringe, and some red wine, obviously, and then some sort of a gelling substance, like agar agar. That’s what makes the droplets hold their shape. The process is called spherification and it’s really sophisticated –”

“Well, they look lovely. The whole meal does. But I hope we get some drinkable wine, as well.”

“Oh – right, of course. I just set it aside to let it breathe. I’ll go grab it right now.”

Dan jumped up from his seat and poured two glasses worth, and returned to the table, offering one to Laurie with a grin.

“Here you go. Anyway… cheers, I guess.”

“Cheers, and congratulations on getting your article published! Jon said it was quite an entertaining read.”

Dan flushed at the mention of Laurie’s other half, taking a sip of wine to put off the inevitable.

“Did you… did you read it?”

He winced internally. That sounded exactly as desperate as it had in his head.

“Not yet. But Jon told me that’s the beauty of the piece – you don’t need to be a scientist to understand it. You 'write accessibly,' were his exact words, I think.”

“Well, I mean, there’s not much to it,” he mumbled. “There’s only so much you can say about the Northern Saw-Whet Owl’s nesting habits.”

Talking about the birder’s magazine article with Laurie was more embarrassing than Dan had been prepared for. He’d been proud of it when he’d invited her over to talk about it, and when he’d sent her a signed copy. Now it just felt kind of… pathetic.

“How’s the steak?” he asked, changing the topic. Laurie ‘mmm-ed’ with pleasure.

“It’s amazing – you should be a chef!” she gushed. He shrugged.

“I dunno. I’d have to find a new butcher to go to supply me – I think one of the guys at my usually place to wants to fight me.”

“… fight you? _You,_ Dan?”

“I just, I mean. He always looks like he wants to leap across the counter and strangle me. Not that I see him much. He works in the back.”

That interested Laurie much more than the article or the meal, as she inched closer, eyes sparkling with intrigue.

“Do you know why? You’re not exactly the kind of guy to make enemies. Did you say anything to him?”

“No! That’s the weird part. I’m pretty sure I’ve never spoken to him before. Ever. But he just glares at me whenever I come in.”

“That is weird,” Laurie nodded. “What does he look like – is he creepy? Does he look like the kind of guy who’d go crazy and stalk you or something?”

Dan shook his head.

“He looks… alone. Not lonely… just… socially isolated, I guess. He doesn’t really talk to any of the employees, either, as far as I’ve seen. He’s hard to describe.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Walter… it says it on his name tag.”

“No last name?”

Dan shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Laurie considered this. Then:

“I’d keep an eye out for him. In case he really is nuts. Check the newspaper.”

“I don’t think it’s anything like that –” Dan protested. “He’s probably just shy.”

“Yeah, well. Be careful. This all sounds like the plot of a scary movie.”

Dan wanted to argue, but didn’t feel like rocking the boat. He went back to working on his steak, instead.

“Look, if you’re going to worry, I’ll go talk to him,” he said after a while.

“Huh?”

“Walter. I’ll go confront him about… whatever this is.”

“Do it where there’s witnesses,” Laurie suggested. “And be prepared to press charges.”

“It’s seriously not that big of a deal!” Dan answered, but she shook her head.

“This kind of stuff is all over the news,” she said. “People getting shot by their cab drivers. People getting mugged by repairmen. Maybe he’s nuts, maybe he isn’t. At the very least, you should find out if he’s doing anything gross to the meat.”

“Gross to the meat… what?”

“I knew this girl when I was in high school. She found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, so for their anniversary, she made him a cake, but she added a can of her cat’s wet food to the mix. I’m just saying. For all we know, these steaks were dropped on the floor.”

Dan stared down at the steak on his plate. He grimaced and set his fork down.

“Want some more wine?” he asked. She shrugged.

“I should probably get going soon anyway. This was nice, though.”

“I made dessert –”

“Jon’s picking me up.”

“Right… here, let me give it to you to go.”

As Dan watched Laurie get into Jon’s car, waving with one hand, while the other clutched the Tupperware full of Black Forest Cake, he wondered if maybe he should go talk to Walter the butcher shop weirdo. At least then he’d have an excuse to invite Laurie over again.

“Not that it’s getting you anywhere. She’s taken, and happily so,” he reminded himself. Honestly, it was more habit than anything. He didn’t have many other people to socialize with.

He shut the front door and sighed as he made his way back to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and set about doing the dishes.


	3. B R I S K E T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/Content Warning for: Walter being an anti-Semitic douchebag in an offhand comment. Which, honestly, should surprise no one, seeing as it's /Walter/ we're talking about, but nevertheless, the warning is there.

* * *

B R I S K E T

The bell above the door rang sharply, alerting Walter to the arrival of someone in the shop. Not normally a man who put stock in wishes, he nevertheless found himself hoping that it was one of the Petersons, back to tend the shop.

Poor old Mr. Peterson’s heart had finally protested to his disgusting diet, and he’d fallen ill with chest pains. Angina, the doctors said. Walter couldn’t help but feel a bit vindicated by the whole thing – he’d never understood how a man like Peterson, whose entire life was spent ensuring that the meat that went out of his shop was of the highest quality, could spend his breaks choking down fast food monstrosities where the proteins were rendered nearly unrecognizable beneath batter and grease.

Still, he supposed he didn’t want Peterson to die. He wasn’t a bad man, really. Just stupid.

Equally stupid were his wife and daughter, who insisted on leaving their posts to visit Mr. Peterson constantly. So much excitement would probably make his condition worse, Walter had warned, but had they listened? No. They disliked Walter – only kept him around because his skill at butchery was second-to-none. They’d been all too happy to dump their share of the work on his shoulders.

All this to say, Walter was stuck minding the shop, alone. The back where he worked, but also the front with its shiny tiles and hideous fluorescent lights. This meant he was interacting with customers.

It wasn’t terrible at first, only because most of the regulars, knowing Mr. Peterson was in a bad way, were considerate, and were waiting until he was well to start bombarding the place with orders. Missus Flaherty appeared and Walter, in a rare moment of weakness, followed her outside to give her pathetic-looking dog his bone in person, earning a lick on the hand and the nudge of a tiny, cold nose for his trouble. It was almost enough for him to say the morning had been... comfortable.

The morning. _Had been._

Walter, unfortunately, was not known for his luck. When the bell rang and he saw the irksomely familiar man walk in, he could not say he was surprised by the sudden appearance of Daniel Dreiberg. It was just the thing to ruin his afternoon, and so, accordingly, it had transpired.

The man was even more blustery and disorganized than usual. It was enough to make Walter suspicious that Dreiberg was frightened of him, which was absurd. He set his jaw, and soldiered on through it.

He’d nearly made it – had managed to control his temper when the paper he was wrapping the brisket in tore unexpectedly and he had to start again. Then Dreiberg went to pay, and, like the abrasive waste of time he was, he decided to do so with exact change. And promptly dropped said change on the floor. And then bumbled about trying to collect all the fallen coins while Walter looked on, hands at his sides, clenched to the point of pain.

“You should find another butcher,” he said before he could stop himself. Dreiberg’s head shot up, alarmed.

“What?”

“Another butcher. More appropriate for your needs.”

Dreiberg blinked.

“Sorry, my… my needs?”

Walter looked down at the brisket in his hands and placed it carefully, lovingly on the counter.

“Not kosher, Mr. Dreiberg.”

There was a pause, and it was long enough that Walter looked up from the parcel to find the customer staring at him, perplexed.

“I don’t… why would…?”

“Name of Dreiberg… sounds like a Jew. Always coming in to buy expensive cuts… seem rich. In this city... always a possibility. All in all… seems like a good guess.”

Dreiberg’s mouth fell open in shock and he nearly dropped his change again.

“… wow,” he said finally. _“Wow._ You... you just went there. That was... really pretty offensive, man.”

Unexpected, too, by the way he was gawping. Walter shrugged.

“Am I wrong?”

“Wow,” Dreiberg said again, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“You still owe a nickel.”

The man handed him the coin numbly. Walter rang up the bill and handed him his receipt.

“Want a bag?” he asked. Dreiberg shook his head once more, collected his purchase, and walked, stunned, out of the store.

Walter cleared his throat again and watched a fly crawl across the counter top in front of him before reaching out and crushing it beneath his fist.


	4. R O U N D

* * *

 R O U N D

After what Dan had dubbed ‘The Comment,’ he wasn’t all that keen to make nice with Walter. He’d never seen himself as a man with a particularly thin skin, but then, he’d not really run up such blatant intolerance before. It surprised him more than hurt him, and most of all, it disappointed him. He tried to articulate as much to Laurie over coffee once he’d had time to wrap his head around it.

“So, do you think this guy is a neo-Nazi or something?” Laurie asked, taking a freakishly small bite of her biscotti. Dan looked down at his own, which he’d all but obliterated in a single chomp.

“Not really. He’s ignorant but he still served me, so…”

“Your problem is, you need to learn to see the bad in people, not just the good. I mean, maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. He’s still an asshole. If I were you, I’d take my business somewhere else.”

Dan watched her sip from her latte and tried to ignore the ache he felt at the sight of the white droplets of foam clinging to her lips.

“I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,” he mumbled into his coffee. “He’s the one with the problem. I shouldn’t have to accommodate him. Besides, I like the Petersons. The old man had a heart attack or a stroke or something. He’s in the hospital.”

“That’s too bad,” Laurie responded, in the manner of someone speaking out of habit, not out of genuine concern. “By the way, I finished reading your article.”

“You did?”

Dan could feel a blush rising to the tips of his ears. He took another hasty gulp of coffee.

“I liked it a lot. Especially the photo of the baby owls. They’re so ugly when they hatch, but they’re pretty cute once they’ve dried off and puffed up.”

“They sure are,” Dan replied, stopping himself before a ‘but not as cute as you’ slipped out through his damned, flapping mouth.

“I’m just gonna go to the ladies’ room,” Laurie said, and excused herself. Dan looked at his face in the reflection of his stirring spoon. He looked old and frumpy.

 _You need to get laid, mister,_ he thought to himself. _And flinging yourself half-heartedly at an unavailable woman is not the way to achieve that._

Not that he had the best luck, even when he had a girl in his bed. Even his hand didn't do it for him all the time anymore. His brain may have wanted some action, but lately his body had other ideas.

For a moment, he considered ordering a slice of cake to cheer himself up. He was just about to give in when Laurie came back and grinned at him.

“I’m going to have to get going, I’m afraid. But I really did have a nice time.”

“Me too. I’ll walk you to a cab,” he said, and left the money for the coffees and biscotti on the table with a tip.

\---

It was late when he made his way to Peterson’s. By the time he’d seen Laurie off and then taken the subway all the way there, Dan was concerned the store might be closed. He was just as concerned it would be open and he’d run into Walter again, but he needed to buy a round steak, for one thing, and he also wanted to see if Mr. Peterson was better yet. If he was, he’d wish the poor guy the best. If not, he’d send him a ‘Get Well’ card.

The light was on in the window of the shop, which was a good sign. Dan checked his watch. Ten to six – he’d made it. Feeling unreasonable trepidation, Dan entered the store, setting off the little bell. He held his breath, waiting to be served.

Walter pushed his way through the plastic strips in the doorway that led to the back room, and gave him a dead-eyed stare.

Dan swallowed, and it took three attempts for him to get a sentence out.

“I wanted to place an order,” he began.

“No more orders today,” Walter retorted.

“I just wanted a round –”

“All out of pre-cut round.”

“Well, then, could you just cut it now – is that a problem?”

Walter cleared his throat. Swallowed phlegm.

Suddenly he unlocked the gate by the counter, turned and retreated through the plastic.

Dan hesitated. It was the closest thing to an invitation he could see himself getting, but he had no real desire to go back and see the meat being cut, while it was still attached to something that resembled an animal.

Walter’s face appeared in the doorway, pinched, impatient.

“Coming?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Dan stumbled after him.

The smell of blood hit him like a punch in the gut and made him gag, and he swayed, disoriented, lost as he waited for his vision to adjust. Did Walter seriously work like this? The whole space was only lit by one, dim bulb. It was like being in a cave.

Gradually, Dan’s eyes got used to it, and what he saw when they did made his mouth go dry.

Walter carved meat like it was an art form. That was the first thought Dan had. The second was, holy shit, when had Walter gone from creepy and weird to downright mesmerizing?

It was just… there was something to his movements, the grace in his tempered brutality. It was so… poetically working class. It reminded Dan of some sort of an experimental film. The play of light and shadow over the glint of a blade, the glisten of the meat, the thin line of Walter’s mouth...

It took Dan a moment to realize he was getting hard. He inhaled shallowly; the air seeming closer and more metallic than before.

“Shocked, perhaps? Never seen where your food comes from?” Walter spat bitterly. “Too sheltered to have seen your dinner’s face before.”

The way he said it made Dan feel like his lack of experience was an unforgivable crime. It made him shudder with anxiousness, and something else.

“I just… you’re very good at this… very natural,” Dan choked. Walter hissed, eyes flashing.

“Nothing natural about this.”

He approached Dan, hands outstretched, showing off chipped nails and skin flecked with blood and dotted with freckles, skin that looked ghostly pale in the faint glow of the solitary hanging bulb.

“In nature, we used hands, nails, teeth… ripped our food apart and ate it raw. No skill to that.”

Walter’s voice was like asphalt scraping a knee, like the little bits of gravel embedded in a stinging palm after a fall. Dan swallowed compulsively, backing away until his back hit something too cool and pliant to be a wall.

“People use ‘butcher’ synonymous with ‘savage.’ Not true. Savagery is consuming meat like an animal. People like you, rich, spoiled… you are domesticated savagery. Fat, neutered house pets that eat whatever’s placed in front of them with no appreciation for where it comes from. Too lazy to cook anything but the easy cuts!”

Each of Walter’s guttural growls were hot against Dan’s mouth. The man had bad breath, and uneven teeth, and eyes like a bird of prey. Dan was pinned beneath that glare, felt the cold seeping from the side of beef behind him in through his clothes, past his skin. Into his bones, and his veins, and his entrails.

“What do you want from me?” he spluttered. “I can’t help who I am –”

“What do _you_ want from _me?_ ” Walter barked in response, index finger poking Dan hard in the chest, spittle speckling his lips and chin. “Do-gooder type, always ‘dropping by,’ always staring. Think it’s your job to ‘relate’ to us, here? To me? This isn’t your shop. This isn’t your neighborhood. **_What are you trying to prove?”_**

Dan flinched as Walter’s voice rose in volume, body breaking out in a sweat.

“N-nothing, I…” he faltered, took a breath, swooned from the smell of blood. He tried again.

“What would you have me cook?” he whispered, eyes huge and owlish behind his glasses.

“Shank… plate… you couldn’t do it justice.”

“Probably not,” Dan replied, genuinely frightened. “Look… if you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“And waste your cut? No surprise,” Walter snapped, and suddenly he’d pulled away. He grabbed the round he’d separated from the carcass, bagged it quickly, and shoved it into Dan’s shaking hands. Dan clung to the bundle, and hurried from the room. Walter did not follow. Dan fumbled in his pocket, unsure of how much the meat would be worth, and pulled out an old takeout receipt. He scribbled an I.O.U. on it hastily and took off running. He didn’t stop until a pain started up in his side and he’d put a few blocks between himself and the Peterson’s shop.

Ducking into an alleyway, Dan collapsed, wheezing, against the side of a dumpster. His legs buckled. Only his legitimate concern about what kind of stuff could be on the ground around him kept him from falling to his knees.

Without thinking, he transferred the steak to one hand, and with his other, fumbled open the fly of his pants. He yanked out a violent rhythm, dry and rough, tears pricking at his eyes, and already he was nearly going over.

He held the round to his face and inhaled. Even through the bag he could smell it, blood, and flesh, and the wave of disgust that swept over him was only noticeable for a moment before his orgasm overtook it and he shot his load into the puddle of miscellaneous fluids and garbage that oozed out from the dumpster’s underside.

Shock, and shame, caught up with him then. He’d just jerked off in a filthy alley. He’d never done anything like that in his life, never wanted to. He was pretty sure Walter wanted to kill him, and he’d just ejaculated to the smell of raw meat.

He did up his pants and staggered off down the street, his breath coming in little, desperate bursts, tears spilling over and running down his cheeks.


	5. C H U C K

* * *

C H U C K

Walter stood over his hot plate, watching his 7-bone steak turn slowly grey. The appliance didn’t generate enough heat to give him a good sear, let alone to properly braise it, and he could tell straight away that he’d be chewing through collagen all night.

An arm’s length away, on the radiator, a single carrot and a can of peas were warming. It was a humble meal, but that was all Walter needed it to be.

When the steak was done, Walter assembled the components on a chipped plate he’d gotten as part of an old porcelain dinner set from a second-hand store. No one had wanted them, on account of the many cracks and imperfections, so Walter had gotten them for a song. The majority of the set sat in the cardboard box they had come in, shoved against the far wall, under his bed. He only needed a plate and a cup for himself. Still, he was fond of them. Sometimes he took them out and dusted each item, examined them, and put them all back in the box.

The set was the finest thing he owned.

He set the food down on his mattress and dressed for bed, stepping out of his day clothes and into his worn flannel pyjamas at record speed. He pulled his bony knees up towards his chest, settled the plate upon them, grabbed a spoon, and began to eat.

Walter was a notoriously fast eater. Even with the toughness of the steak taken into account, he tore through his meal like a wild dog. Once the plate was clean, Walter walked it down the hall to the shared bathroom on his floor and washed it in the sink. He took it back to his room and set it on the nightstand to dry.

Arranging himself once more on his bed, Walter reached over to where he kept a small, olive green transistor radio, sandwiched between his mattress and the wall. It was an old model, dating from sometime in the fifties, yet another find from the bargain bin of the thrift store. He switched it on and held it to his ear, turning the dial until he hit upon a broadcast of _Die Walküre._ He edged the dial along until he could only just barely hear the strains of music over the static. Then he reached over and turned out the bedside lamp.

It was easier to betray himself in the dark. Not that Walter did it often – but to have do it at all was bad enough. Try as he might, it was the one vice he couldn’t seem to fully shake.

His hand was like ice when it slid inside his pyjamas, and made gooseflesh rise on his skin. He bit down hard on his lower lip until he tasted copper and didn’t mind the cold.

It was all that damn Dreiberg’s fault. He’d been scared and vulnerable and once, just once, Walter saw what it was like to watch a big man fall – to push him down off his pedestal of wealth and superiority. And it had felt good.

This, too, felt good.

He tried to concentrate on other things. The distorted, tinny sound of Wagner coming in over the airwaves. The taste of beef on his tongue. The fact that it was Dreiberg’s fault – all his – because Walter was a good boy, Walter wasn’t like everyone else. He wasn’t sick and disgusting and degenerate like the lazy, complacent class – like Dreiberg, who probably never thought to wash his hands again and again until they were red and raw after he touched himself, who probably thought it was perfectly acceptable to rut up into his grip like a stupid animal, who probably visited women and paid for sex, women with children, women with sad little boys who watched wide-eyed and frightened as the man took notice and the woman glared and the boy cried and he knew she’d punish him later, punish him for being filthy, disgusting, _degenerate–_

Walter came with an aborted whine and wiped off his hand on a towel stashed under the bed for just such a shameful purpose. He slipped his feet into his shoes and walked out into the hall, and down to the communal bathroom. He turned the tap on as hot as he could stand and stood there, water turning his skin bright red. He didn’t shut it off until his hands went numb.

Back to his room then, back to bed, lights off and radio too. Walter lay very still in the dark and felt blood welling up at the cut on his lip. He listened to the sounds of the city – drunks rambling and shouting, car tires screeching. It was raining, and each droplet sounded like a gunshot against his window.

When he fell asleep, Walter did not dream.


	6. S H A N K

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more meat porn. Sorry for the wait.

* * *

S H A N K

Dan had never attempted to cook beef shank before. Honestly, he’d never wanted to. If he was going to have red meat, then he’d rather have something tender and juicy – not this tough hunk of resistant flesh.

But he wasn’t doing this for himself.

Things between Walter and him had been getting weird for a while, but it had officially crossed into ‘fucked up’ in that alleyway, and Dan knew he had to make things go back to as close to normal as he could manage.  For both of their sakes.

The recipe was one he’d found in a cookbook someone had given him for his birthday years ago. He had never used it – the recipes were so old-fashioned and boring by his standards. Walter… he seemed the type to respond to tradition. There wasn’t much more traditional than a plain beef stew.

That said, Dan still couldn’t resist having a little fun with it. He nixed the recipe’s spices and played around with some of his own until what he got was the lovechild of stew and bulgogi. The distinct, pleasant aroma of the Korean spices made Dan’s mouth water. He hoped they’d make Walter’s water, too.

The whole point of slow cookers was that you were supposed to be able to leave them to their devices. Set them up in the morning, find your food cooked when you got home from work. Dan was well aware of this, but could not bring himself to pull away from the appliance for more than a few minutes. An undercurrent of tension was keeping him on edge.

_What if Walter’s right? What if I really am a one-trick, microgastronomical pony?_

The hours passed like the countdown to an execution.

Dan’s palms were sweating when he finally removed the lid of the slow cooker and ladled the stew into a Tupperware container. He swallowed hard, throat tight, and shakily wrote out a label for the lid.

WALTER  
CAN I REALLY COOK?  
YOU BE THE JUDGE  
\- DAN

The little portion felt like it weighed a ton, still warm, bundled in a non-descript plastic bag. Dan tapped his foot on the sticky floor of the subway car, nerves fried and hands clutching the container like a lifeline.

The shop was closed.

That was the first thought Dan had as he rounded the corner and saw it, lights off, windows shuttered. This was followed by a tsunami of panic. He hadn’t accounted for this – he didn’t even know Walter’s last name – how would he be able to deliver –?

There was a note. Childish, cramped letters fighting for dominance on a page.

FREEZER BROKEN  
REPAIRS TOMORROW  
\- W. KOVACS

There was no doubt in Dan’s mind that the W stood for Walter.

It took three tries to find a phone booth where the phone book had not been stolen, but when Dan did, he flipped through it quickly, hoping that Walter wasn’t paranoid enough to be unlisted. The white pages turned up a home address which Dan scribbled down on his hand with a ballpoint pen. He set off in the direction he best guessed was the right one, and tried not to flinch every time he passed something that reminded him that this was definitely not a safe neighborhood.

Walter’s apartment building looked more like the set of a horror movie. The whole thing was cracked and crumbling. One of the upstairs balconies had entirely split from the wall and hung at an angle like a rusted iron torture device, one of those gruesome cages they’d put people in to die of exposure in the middle ages. Dan shuddered.

He narrowly avoided a pile of dog shit that spread across the dirty street like ice cream melting on a hot day. One of the stairs up to the building gave a dangerous wobble beneath him. The door handle and buzzer system was ancient and caked in the grime of a thousand hands touching it, of smog, of city filth.

The name W. KOVACS was printed next to a button, which Dan pushed using the end of his pen. It worked, but the speaker didn’t come on. Walter either was letting the phone ring, or he had disconnected his landline. Dan wasn’t honestly surprised. He tried another button at random and got an older-sounding woman with a thick accent.

“Hello, Ma’am. Maintenance. I’m testing the buzzers to make sure they’re all working properly. Could you buzz me in? I want to see if the circuits are responding correctly. Thank you.”

The lie rolled easily off his tongue and Dan was ashamed of himself, even as he pushed his way in through the now-open door and made his way into the building.

The lobby smelled like stale urine and cleaning solvent. It gave Dan an instant headache, and he marvelled at how people could actually stand to live in places like this. He felt very out-of-place in his two-hundred-dollar jacket and imported leather shoes.

The elevator button was crusted in a substance that Dan could only assume, though he hoped he was wrong, to be dried semen. Another push of his ballpoint pen and the button glowed faintly, followed by a long, grinding, mechanical sound as the elevator clunked slowly into place. The doors stuck part way through opening – likely caused by the dent in one of them. Dan had a momentary vision of turning up dead in that elevator. He swallowed and squeezed his way inside.

The interior was actually… well, not nice, but definitely better than the lobby. It was mirrored, with scuffed wood panelling and a chipped tile floor, and were it not for the graffiti and the unshakeable smell of weed, it could’ve been something out of a 1930s film noir. It even had a running track – long disused – where the old, manually sliding grate would’ve slid past.

Walter’s apartment number had been, as far as Dan could estimate from his apartment number, somewhere on the third floor, so he pushed the corresponding button and waited for the lift to rise. It took its sweet time, and made such laborious straining noises that Dan was tempted to get out and take the stairs, but no sooner had he taken a step towards the doors when they shut and the thing lumbered upwards at last.

The hallways was straight out of a nightmare – dimly lit and ominous – and Dan followed it with trepidation until at last he came to the correct door. He took a shaky breath, tightened his hold on the Tupperware, and knocked.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again. Still nothing.

“Maybe he’s not home?” Dan mumbled to himself. _Great. Just great._

He turned around in defeat and let out a yelp when none other than Walter practically bumped into him. Walter startled in alarm, looking just as shaken, his eyes wide and angry.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. Dan’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, uselessly. The man was in civilian clothes – not his usual shop uniform. It actually made him look more formal, the ancient, three-piece suit incongruous and yet, somehow, completely right. Of course Walter would dress like that. Of course. And of course he’d be the kind of guy to read – what was it? Dan couldn’t see the title, but he could see the headline of the paper clenched in Walter’s bony fist. RED SCOURGE IN GOVERNMENT – PINKO GOVERNOR THREATENED; DENIES ALLEGATIONS. Dan almost snorted. Only Walter could seriously read right-wing propaganda in the john.

“I came to give you this,” Dan managed, holding out the container. Walter stared.

“What is it?”

“It’s good – it’s beef shank stew.”

"You didn't buy beef shank from us."

"I know... I wanted this to be a surprise."

Walter went on staring for a good minute before tucking the newspaper under his harm and taking the little bundle.

“Hurm. Still warm.”

“Yeah. I just made it. Anyway, I figured you could tell me if I was doing a good job, seeing as you know more about meat than I do.”

Walter ignored him, reading the little note slowly, his face unreadable.

“Too much,” he murmured.

“There’s enough for two,” Dan admitted. “I figured you could freeze some for later?”

“No fridge.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, just throw it out then.”

Dan realized his mistake as soon as Walter looked up, seemingly… scandalized.

“Wasteful, Mr. Dreiberg.”

“Right. I just meant –”

Walter pushed past him and unlocked his door, retreating into the room, food in hand. When Dan didn’t follow, he circled back around.

“Coming?”

Memories of a similar moment in the shop, and the aftermath in the alley, made Dan blush fiercely. He nodded.

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

The inside of Walter’s apartment reminded Dan of a documentary he’d seen once. The main focus of the film had been on birds of prey, but there had been a scene showing a mother rat and her babies, all snuggled up in a nest made from trash and old paper. That’s what the room looked like – cluttered, but not without a sort of organic order to it. A kind of natural chaos. There were strange things everywhere. Mementos? Dan didn’t know. A stack of newspapers, the _New Frontiersman_ and others he’d never heard of, stood in one corner. A radiator took up another. A lumpy, narrow bed lined one wall. Dan noted the simple wooden cross that hung over it with interest. Walter didn’t seem the religious type, but then, how well did he really know the guy?

More noticeable, really, was the lack of comforts. No family photos. No nice hand creams or kitchen gadgets or colorful accent pieces. Everything was grey and brown and soulless.

Well, not everything.

Walter was on his hands and knees, rummaging around under his bed. The Tupperware wobbled dangerously with each movement of the mattress and Dan wanted to move it, but was afraid of what might happen if he interfered. Walter pulled out a few things; a battery, a sewing kit, a crusty rag which caused him to purple and shake in his haste to hide it again. Then, at last, a box. He pulled it out into the middle of the room and opened it, revealing a set of imitation china dishware.

They all had the same folksy print on them – pretty kitschy, in Dan’s opinion, definitely cheap, but he could see how they’d appeal to a guy who liked traditional things. Walter selected two bowls from the set and filled them with the stew. He handed one of the bowls to Dan.

“Only have one spoon,” he stated. Dan nodded.

“That’s fine. There’s one in the bag.”

Walter searched and turned up the collapsible spoon, looking at it with distaste as he handed it over and Dan folded it back into a functional shape.

That done, Walter turned his attention back to the stew. He raised the bowl to his lips and sniffed at it, scowling.

“Smells funny.”

“That’s just the spices.”

“Foreign?”

He said it like it was a dirty word.

“Mm. Korean.”

Walter opened his mouth to protest and Dan shook his head.

“Just try it. One mouthful, okay? You don’t even have to swallow if you don’t want to.”

 _Oh God,_ he thought as the words passed his lips. _That sounded terrible._

Fortunately, if Walter noticed the unintentional innuendo, he didn’t comment.

Walter lifted a spoonful of the stew to his mouth and stared down his nose at it. His nostrils flared at the exotic aroma. He furrowed his brow.

“Go on,” Dan coaxed gently. “You might even like it.”

Walter squared his shoulders, screwed up his face, and stuffed the spoonful into his mouth like the foulest-tasting medicine. Immediately, his eyes widened and his face flushed a blotchy pink.

“What’s wrong?” Dan asked, worry cutting through him. Was it too spicy? God forbid – was Walter allergic to something he’d put in the stew? That’d be a hell of a thing – accidentally killing a guy in his own apartment with beef stew. No one would buy that defense. Dan wasn’t under any illusions – he knew he couldn’t hack it in prison.

“Are you okay?” he pressed. _Please don’t go into anaphylactic shock._

Walter managed a shaky nod and Dan breathed a sigh of relief.

“And what about the stew – do you like it?”

Walter nodded again.

“It’s acceptable,” he said hoarsely, surprising Dan with an unusually complete sentence. Then, “Please get out of my apartment.”

Dan blinked at him, suddenly registering a hostile tension building in the room.

“Okay, do you want me to leave the rest of the –”

“Yes. Leave.”

“Well, look, I’m sorry if I upset –”

“Get out, Mr. Dreiberg.”

Dan was ushered backwards into the dingy hallway. The door slammed in his face.

“Well… that was weird,” he said aloud. Still, it went better than he’d expected. He’d been trying to prove a point – petty and juvenile though it may have been. It was a matter of pride to show Walter he could cook well.

He guessed the concession, that the food was acceptable, was enough to show he’d won, but there was no climax, no satisfaction. He didn’t want Walter to just accept defeat. He wanted him to apologize, and maybe to broaden his mind a little. _Yeah, and what else do you want?_ said a traitorous voice in his head. _Pretty sure you wanted a different kind of satisfaction in that alley._

“I’ll have to try harder,” Dan decided, making his way to the elevator and ignoring his brain's line of questioning.

\---

Within his apartment, Walter stood, trembling, breathing hard through his nose as he shovelled stew into his mouth with abandon. He was drooling – a combination of saliva and gravy dribbling down his chin, but he couldn’t stop long enough to wipe his face.

It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. The act barely felt like eating – the thick broth was warm and salty-sweet, with just enough heat to heighten the senses. The meat was surprisingly tender – expertly cooked. It was the star of the dish, but rather than defer to it, the other flavors rose to compliment it, a symphony of spice and earthiness.

Walter finished both bowls-full, and, when they were empty, licked them clean. He sucked the residual taste from his fingers as he collapsed backwards onto his bed, legs giving out beneath him.

He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes watering, distantly, shamefully aware of the hot pulsing of his prick, stiff his trousers. He was terrified – of the heat on his tongue, the ache in his groin, the overwhelming feeling of hedonistic abandon. Eating had never been like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. His first reaction was that he’d been drugged, but there was no way – the taste was too pure. It couldn’t have masked some aphrodisiac substance, and besides, why would Daniel Dreiberg make him stew with the purpose of arousing him? It didn’t make any sense.

His tongue ran around the corners and crevices of his mouth, desperate for more of that sinfully good stew. He found it there, congealing on his bottom lip, and as he lapped it clean, he spread his legs a fraction, the motion and the lingering spicy taste enough to push him over the edge. Shame hit him like a tidal wave as he came in his pants, crying and sucking his own lips raw. He rode said wave to its inevitable crash, and sobbed, biting his tongue till it bled.


	7. M E A T B A L L S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, all my chapters were going to be named for cuts of meat, but to make this work, I had to deviate a little. 
> 
> Also, it should be noted (as I've tried to establish with the whole micrograsronomy angle) that this is a Modern Day AU. So tablets, cellphones... the works.
> 
> Also, content warnings for more douche-y canon-flavor bigotry/discomfort from Walter (of the anti-Semitic and homophobic varieties,) some douche-y misguided!Dan being a bit of a classist prick, awkward conversations in general, Catholic!Walter, agnostic!Dan... and yeah. That should be about all of it.
> 
> It's good to be back writing this, folks. It's good, indeed.

* * *

M E A T B A L L S

Dan didn’t see Walter for a while after the incident at his apartment. The next time he stopped by the Petersons’, Walter wasn’t in – instead, one of Peterson Sr.’s fresh-faced young nephews was apprenticing the trade. He was clumsy – nowhere near as sure of himself as Walter was, and it showed in the ragged edges of some of his cuts. Still, he was friendly, and his grin was so sincere when Dan complemented him on his meat-wrapping skills that Dan couldn’t help but take a shine to him. The kid had been so pleased that he nearly forgot about an important delivery, and had to come running down the block lest he miss his chance.

“Your Tupperware, Mr. Dreiberg,” he panted. “Walter told me to tell you the stew was satisfactory.”

Dan took the Tupperware, bemused, and promptly forgot about it once he got home. Walter had washed it, so he was in no need to actually examine the object. It’d keep till morning, at least.

It was two a.m., and he’d just sent the draft of his latest article off to his editor, when Dan had a hankering for a late night snack. He padded into the kitchen, and was half-way through making a cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich when he noticed there was something – a folded piece of paper – in the Tupperware. He opened it, and fished out the note.

 _HAVE TO THANK YOU FOR MEAL. ONLY FAIR._  
COME TO THE SHOP AT CLOSING TIME ON FRIDAY.  
NICE RESTAURANT WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.  
\- W. KOVACS

The note was bizarre – formal and presumptuous at the same time. There was an awkwardness to the handwriting, as if Walter had hesitated more than once, had taken time to choose his words with care.

Dan was surprised, confused, and curious, simultaneously. At least this meant that Walter hadn’t hated the food, which was encouraging. Still, one man asking another man out to dinner at a restaurant… Dan had many friends for whom this would be common practice – nothing more than academics having a discussion over lunch, or fellow bird nerds blabbing about a sighting of this or that finch. For a guy like Walter, God only knew what it meant. Was it a test? An olive branch? A _date?_

Dan laughed. _Yeah, right._ The idea of Walter asking a guy – let alone a guy who owned not one, but two tablets, and drank imported spring water – was in a league of absurdity all its own.

Still, homosocial ambiguity aside, Dan found himself actually looking forward to the night out. He took the time to plan his outfit, twice (the second time being when it occurred to him that any restaurant in Walter’s neck of the woods wouldn’t take kindly to customers showing up in $500 sport coats.) He made an appointment with his barber and stopped in for a trim and a shave. He rented a car, not wanting to contend with the subway on the late night return trip, and _really_ not wanting to park his convertible somewhere where it would get trashed. He realized, as he glanced at his watch for the sixth time in ten minutes, that he was actually nervous, and not just in the ‘Walter Kovacs is a butcher with the skill to dismember you if you cross him’ kind of way.

The drive to the butcher shop was hell in the rush hour traffic, and Dan kicked himself for not having taken a cab. He still managed to arrive twenty minutes early – a testament to how early he had left his house. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he hummed tunelessly, hyper-aware of how his palms were sweating.

After what felt like an eon, it was closing time, and Dan watched the lights shut off inside the shop. The door opened and Walter stepped out, collar up against the chill. It was a shitty night – a wavering threat of rain left the air both humid and cold– and he was already braced for a storm, from the looks of it. He locked the front door, and folded his arms tightly across his chest, waiting on the step. Dan honked the horn and the red-head flinched before nodding grimly and hurrying to get into the passenger seat. He settled in and did up his seat belt as he criticized the car.

“No need for this. I told you. We could walk.”

Up close, Dan had to steel himself to the smell of blood and really old cologne. It was not a good combination, and it instantly overpowered the juniper-mint vent clip that Dan had plugged into the car.

“Why take our chances with the downpour? Where is this place, anyway?”

Walter spat out the address and then clammed up. Dan attempted a few ‘how was your day’s and ‘heard any interesting stories lately’s but they all fell flat. Walter stared straight ahead out the front window, giving off an air of misery so palpable that Dan actually felt bad for having shown up.

Dan pulled up to the restaurant and parked with trepidation. The place looked… well... shitty. Run-down, with a roof that sank into itself at one end, a crooked, flickering neon sign saying ‘OPEN’, and little lace curtains in the windows, thick with dust. A vase of fake flowers in the window had faded to a pale ghost of its former self. Walter got out of the car and walked off, leaving Dan to lock up, and trot after him to catch up.

The inside of the place was poorly lit. The last time the decor had been updated must’ve been some time in the seventies – the whole place was cluttered with fake Italian kitsch. Dan had seen hundreds of the places in his life, and had eaten at a few. They were all the same. Tasteless tomato sauce, store-bought pasta, and parmesan that could’ve been sawdust, for all it added to the meal.

Walter growled out his reservation, and a teenage waitress who picked incessantly at a poorly healed piercing through her left earlobe, led them to a booth. She lit a candle and handed them some menus.

Dan looked over the food in dismay. None of it was remarkable. Really, it was a question of what had the least chance of giving him food poisoning, more than anything else.

“You, uh… you come here often?”

Dan winced at the words the moment he said them. It sounded like a come-on about as creative as the dinky little table they were sitting at. His heart sank as he noticed a stain on the red and white checkered tablecloth, thankful that it was contained beneath a thick layer of age-yellowed vinyl sheeting.

“Hmm. Know the owner. Buys his meat from the Petersons. Gives an employee discount.”

That explained a lot.

The waitress appeared with the house red – really the only red they had in stock – and overfilled two streaky wineglasses.

“L’chaim,” Dan toasted habitually before remembering who he was with, and Walter looked up at him, momentarily startled, before offering a grudging nod and a grumbled ‘to your health.’

The wine was worse than the crap Dan drank in college, which was saying something, since he’d bought most of it off a guy who made bathtub booze in his dorm, wore tank tops all year, and went by the name ‘Party Dave.’ His palate rebelled at the taste of the stuff. It burned his tongue, sour and cheap.

“What do you recommend?” he asked, eyes watering as his throat worked to keep the liquid down. Walter tapped a bitten thumbnail against the laminated menu.

“Spaghetti and meatball.”

Dan sighed. At least the meat was coming from somewhere trustworthy, he reasoned. When the waitress returned, he let Walter order two servings.

“So,” he ventured, forcing down another mouthful of inferior wine. “I take it you liked my stew.”

A look of… pain?... crossed Walter’s features. He nodded stiffly.

“Good. I mean, I like making food people enjoy, you know?” Dan said. “I have to admit, it’s been fun, trying to cook more ambitious cuts.”

Walter made a vague noise and drank half the contents of his wine glass. He fiddled with his fingertips agitatedly, worrying open his cuticle, which began to bleed.

“Did you have a nice day at work?” Dan pressed, watching the blood coagulate with morbid fascination. Walter shrugged.

“Acceptable.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I had a bit of a lazy day, today. Sent my editor a draft of my latest piece. It’s about eagles –”

Walter perked up at that.

“Good, American birds,” he affirmed.

“Yeah. Well, the paper’s about how they pirate their food – some of it – from other birds. 18%, give or take. It’s fascinating stuff, and kind of funny, when you think about it. The symbol of America, stealing, displacing other predators from food and territory. It’s a pretty fitting metaphor for our country’s history, albeit not a favorable one.”

Walter didn’t have a chance to retort as the waitress was suddenly back, this time with food. She stopped picking her ear long enough to serve them both, and top up the wine unnecessarily.

The food, actually, surprised Dan. Sure, it was plain Jane and generic, but it was hearty, and he wouldn’t get sick from it, apart from the usual risk of heartburn. The meat itself was well-seasoned and cooked evenly. Pork, with Italian spices, Walter had said. ‘Forgot you were a Jew,’ he admitted, and Dan had explained he wasn’t practicing – that he was agnostic, leaning towards humanist. Walter had said something unintelligible as he stuffed a meatball into his mouth, and Dan had let the subject drop.

It occurred to him, as he was twirling spaghetti around on his fork, that he and Walter didn’t actually have much to talk about. Other than meat, and the shop, there was nothing to say. Not being a fan of uncomfortable silences, Dan asked the first thing that came into his head.

“You said you know the guy who owns this place?”

Walter nodded, slurping at his noodles in a way that made Dan cringe.

“Like… how do you know him? Is it through work, or…?”

“Wuk,” Walter answered, mouth full, “chuch – fuh tha. Chuhduns hum.”

Dan cocked his head.

“Sorry. Missed that last bit.”

Walter swallowed and glared at him.

“Work, church, children’s home,” he repeated, almost defiantly, and shoveled more food into his mouth.

A whole series of questions and impressions passed through Dan’s mind in seconds. He attempted to keep his face neutral, but Walter noticed his curiosity and snorted.

“So uh. Children… children’s home, eh? What was that like?”

 _Smooth, Daniel. No way **that’s** a touchy subject,_ he scolded himself.

Walter took a noisy gulp of wine.

“Like you expect. Noisy. Crowded. Full of children.”

“Right. And uh… you met the owner… there?”

“Pietro. Pete. And yes. Met him. He was… less unpleasant than the other boys. Liked baseball.”

“Do you like baseball?” Dan asked hopefully, praying that a God he wasn’t convinced existed would spare him from more of this conversation topic.

“Didn’t dislike it.”

The conversation flat-lined again. It was only what Dan decided was some kind of sick masochism that made him revive it once more.

“So. Work, and the uh… home, and church? You go to church?”

Walter narrowed his eyes, shrinking away somewhat.

“Nothing wrong with going to church,” he said guardedly.

“No – no, not at all! I was just wondering. Catholic?”

Walter twitched with what might have been a nod.

“Why so many questions, Daniel?”

Dan didn’t know what to say to that, at first. He blinked in surprise, then shook his head, bewildered.

“I don’t know – you’re the one who invited me out for dinner. I’m just trying to figure out what to do, to be honest. I have no idea what to say to you, man. I mean, you ask me out for… what? A thank you? You don’t even know me – and you take me to… I mean, what even is this place? It’s okay, and I get you can eat here for cheap, but you must’ve known I’d be out of place in a spot like this. I’m just… I’m confused. Anyone else, and I’d think this was some weird indirect way of roping me into going on a date with you.”

Dan had meant it as a joke, to lighten the mood, but one look at Walter’s face and he knew he’d made a big mistake. The man turned so chalk white that he looked dead, and squished back in the booth like he was trying to put all the distance he could between them.

“Y-you thought –,” he sputtered, “I would – you –”

He got up suddenly, knocking into the table and making the cutlery clatter. He was visibly shaking, eyes saucer-wide with disgust and mounting terror.

“I was only kidding – Walter, where are you going?”

“Home,” he croaked. “This was a mistake.”

Dan rose to his feet too, hoping to offer some reassurance, but it only made Walter bolt towards the door.

“Come on, man, I didn’t mean – it’s raining cats and dogs out there, now – why don’t you come back and we can –”

A flash of movement and the door slammed. Walter was gone.

“ – talk about this…” Dan trailed off. _Shit._ He hadn’t meant to traumatize the guy – only to needle him a bit – to get him to let his guard down.

_Yeah, and he wouldn’t be on the defensive at all, showing you around his neighborhood – showing you the place that’s owned by his friend from the fucking children’s home – damn it, Dan._

Dan sighed. Walter had been so rattled he’d left his coat in the booth.

The waitress came over in the aftermath of the commotion.

“I’m not dining and dashing, I swear,” Dan said, pulling own jacket. “I just – my friend was in a rush to leave, and left his coat – and he’ll catch pneumonia out there without it. Here, take my cellphone as collateral. You don’t have an umbrella I could borrow, do you?”


	8. D R I N K S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is hella self-indulgent. Also, I have no idea how many chapters this will take to resolve. The end is in sight, but it's not as clear to me where I'll break up my chapters, so I'm going to leave it up in the air for the time being. Rest assured, there IS a plan and an ending on the way. This thing won't just trail off to oblivion.
> 
> The song in Dan's playlist, by the way, is Cigarettes After Sex's 'Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby' and really, I COULD NOT RECOMMEND STRONGLY ENOUGH that you look it up on youtube and listen to it while you read this. It conveys the atmosphere I'm going for better than anything I could ever write. I had it on loop when I wrote this chapter.
> 
> Finally, I know fuck all about Keurig coffee machines. My relatives have one - that stuff is too ritzy for me. I had to browse their website to learn what tea they have. Also, I have no idea if Whole Foods sells the kind of marshmallows I'm talking about, but where I live, Whole Foods is where the rich folks shop. (Also, I never shop there because a) I'm a poor student and b) they were really shitty to our local farmer's market (taking their ads down etc. even though they were on public land.) AAAANYWAY this is not a time to air grievances. This is a time to write about Dan and Walter and beverages and silk bathrobes.
> 
> Enjoy.

* * *

D R I N K S

Where _was_ he? Walter couldn’t have gotten far – not without so much as a jacket. Dan opened the umbrella and made his way forward.

It was so loud – rain on rooftops, on windows. Walter was nowhere to be found.

Defeated, Dan returned to the restaurant. He paid for the meal, got his phone, and returned the umbrella. Now unprotected, he dashed through the parking lot and hurriedly got into the car. He cranked up the heat. Even a few minutes in the cold dampness had him shivering. _Walter must be freezing out there_ , he thought fretfully.

Not knowing where else to look, Dan drove to Walter’s apartment – missing the turn twice, not having tried to drive there before. He waited in the car, watching the door, and, sure enough, ten minutes or so later, a miserable, wet figure came into view.

Dan flashed the lights. Walter froze. Dan opened the car door and called out.

“I have your coat.”

Walter grimaced and marched forwards, hugging himself. As he got closer, Dan continued.

“You’re soaked. Do you even have a dryer in your building – any way to keep those clothes from mildewing?”

Walter hesitated a moment too long, and Dan sighed.

“Please just… get in my car. I promise I won’t make any more jokes. You can use my dryer and have some coffee.”

Walter moved to take a step forwards, caught himself, and recoiled.

“Please,” Dan continued. “I am really sorry. I fucked up, and I was an asshole. Believe it or not, I don’t socialize much. I’m… I make mistakes. And I regret them. So please? Get in the car?”

He was laying it on a bit thick, but at that point, he’d have said anything to get Walter out of the rain. Slow as molasses, some of the fight went out of the smaller man and he inched his way around the car to the passenger door. Dan didn’t give himself credit for that – in this storm, a feral dog would’ve done the same thing, if it meant going someplace dry.

The drive to Dan’s neighborhood was better than it could’ve been. Mostly because Dan was driving. It wasn’t always – or even often – practical, driving around in New York City, but he did enjoy it. He loved driving at night – loved the city at night, in general. The rain reflected rainbows off of neon signs, and glittering apartment windows lit up the sky, golden against the gloom. Safe and warm in the comfort of a vehicle, he could look out at the world and appreciate its beauty.

In time, they left the squalor and the urban decay behind, and reached Dan’s tidy, maintained neighborhood. Dan parked on the street – there was no room in his underground garage for the rental car, and it was safe to leave it out – cars didn’t tend to get stolen from his street. He got out and waited for Walter to do the same. Locking the car with the button on the key fob, Dan led the way to his front door. He propped said door open as Walter slipped past him. Locked up. Hung up Walter’s coat. Tried to ignore that the universe was probably imploding on itself because _Walter was in his house._

“There’s a bathroom down the hall to your right. I’ll grab you a robe. You can just leave your stuff in there and I’ll throw it in the dryer for you once you’re done.”

Walter nodded. He was quiet, but not in any way comfortable. He looked a bit traumatized, actually, now that Dan saw him under the front hall light.

Once the redhead was in the bathroom, and a silk robe was waiting for him, Dan went to the laundry room and threw his own clothes in the dryer, changing into a t-shirt and old jeans. From there, he embarked for the kitchen and put a pod in his Keurig to make himself a Vanilla Velvet tea. He took out two mugs – his favorite owl one for himself, and the one that Laurie and Jon had given him for his birthday – a navy blue, black, and cream striped one. It was blockier than most mugs, but Dan figured the angular shape and muted color scheme would go over well.

Blowing on his tea to cool it, he wandered back down the hall and wrapped on the bathroom door.

“What do you want? I’ve got coffee, tea, hot chocolate…?”

A long, guilty pause.

“Hot chocolate,” came the mumbled response.

“Alright, buddy. I’m on it.”

Dan put the hot chocolate pod in the machine and hunted around his kitchen for some of the gourmet cinnamon chai marshmallows he’d bought at Whole Foods, meant for the next time Laurie came over. He found them a bit sweet, but she insisted they were the best she’d ever tasted, so he liked to have them on hand. Hopefully Walter had a sweet tooth.

Feeling fancy, Dan added some whipped cream and a little shaved chocolate to the top of the beverage and brought it into the living room. He set the mugs down on the coffee table, neatly centered on matching coasters; turned on the fireplace; and dimmed the lights.

“Siri, play playlist Atmospheric Indie.”

Siri complied, and soon, a slow, moody tune was bleeding into the air from Dan’s surround-sound speakers.

_Whispered something in your ear / It was a perverted thing to say  
But I said it anyway / Made you smile  & look away_

Sinking into the couch, Dan considered his circumstance. Walter was undressing in the bathroom down the hall. The thought made his skin prickle, and he tried to imagine that life-roughened, workman’s body. Pale, freckled, a natural redhead… Dan took a sip of tea.

At what point had his half-assed interest in Laurie been replaced with… this? More to the point, what the hell was he supposed to do with the knowledge that the thought of Walter naked had him twitching with interest? He let his thighs fall open a bit, feeling the chafe of Denim on his bare skin. He’d gone commando out of convenience, but now it felt dangerous. He scratched his thigh, the movement of his fingertips sending little jolts like electricity, crackling over his flesh.

The wine had been shitty, but it had also been potent. Dan rubbed his nipple through a t-shirt soft from many washes, wondering if Walter felt as adrift as he did.

_When we dance in my living room / To that silly '90s R &B  
When we have a drink or three / Always ends in a hazy shower scene_

Seconds after Dan’s hand fell away from himself, moving to palm the cool, smooth leather of his couch, he heard footfalls in the hall. He looked up and his breath caught in his throat.

The robe was way too big for Walter’s wiry frame, but the maroon silk caught the moonlight from the window, and the glow from the fireplace, defining musculature in his shoulders and chest. His eyes looked wet, a little hurt, but fierce. The kind of knife-sharp awareness in the eye of a wild animal.

“Here’s your cocoa,” Dan croaked, gesturing towards it. Walter approached warily and sat, tense and defensive, near his mug. He took an inelegant swig of the hot chocolate. His eyes widened and he lowered the mug.

“Spices,” he murmured. Dan nodded.

“Yeah. That’ll be the marshmallows. Cinnamon chai – they're fair trade. Do you like them? I only keep them around for when Laurie stops by.”

Walter nodded shakily.

“Who’s Laurie?”

“She’s my… ah. Friend. I mean, I kind of have a thing for her. Had a… had a thing.”

Something flashed in Walter’s eyes.

“I mean she, uh… she has a partner. Jon. They’re really happy… and he’s a good guy, really. I couldn’t complain. I mean, I’m too old for her anyway. So’s Jon really, but he’s not so much of a. Um. I’m just. I’m happy for people, when I can be. I’m a positive person, I think. People tell me I am.”

Walter was staring at him, face unreadable.

Dan swallowed hard.

“You’ve got some, uh. You’ve got some whipped cream.”

He mimed wiping it off his own lip. Walter was staring into his soul.

 _Fuck it,_ Dan thought. _Whatever this is… it can’t get any weirder._

He set his tea aside and scooted towards the butcher, who flinched, but did not pull away.

“Here, let me just…”

Dan’s thumb slid over the daub of cream, pushing it to Walter’s lips, which parted. An inexperienced tongue darted out to taste the sweetness.

_Nothing's gonna hurt you baby / As long as you're with me you'll be just fine  
Nothing's gonna hurt you baby / Nothing's gonna take you from my side_

If Dan had been thinking clearly, he might’ve considered his actions more carefully. He might’ve recalled that Walter was a miserable bigot who could beat the shit out of him, if he wanted to.

There was no blood in Dan’s body for his brain. Every cell of his body was on fire, every nerve ending alive and raw. He was hard as he’d been in the butchery room – the thought of it, the memory of that metallic, iron air had his hips shifting forward.

“Walter,” he breathed, and if he sounded wonderstruck, it’s because he was.

Dan brushed his lips to thinner, chapped ones, worked his tongue between them to taste cheap wine and red sauce and spiced chocolate. His free hand – the one that hadn’t slid from Walter’s mouth to cup his jaw – slipped under a silken hem to squeeze a bony handful of the butcher’s bare knee.

Suddenly, there was a clatter, and heat coursed between them. Walter’s shaking hands had abandoned their grip of his mug, and it had fallen to the floor.

Dan jumped back, wiping at his legs and cursing as the hot liquid burned his skin. He looked at the spreading stain – dark brown on his ash gray carpet. The mug was smashed.

There was a sharp intake of breath. Dan looked back at Walter. The man was agonized, his hands white-knuckled fists now, held reflexively in front of himself like a shield. His face was marbled red and white as meat.

“Broken,” he whispered, haunted. Dan shook his head.

“It’s not important. I can buy a new one – and my cleaning lady can get stains out of anything –”

Walter swallowed, shook his head. Swallowed again.

“I want to go home,” he said suddenly, in a voice so small and frightened that Dan took a minute to realize he’d been the one to say it.

“You can’t! You’ll freeze out there in just a robe.”

There was no anger in his raised voice – only fear.

“I want to go home!”

The voice of a child, a strange falsetto, somewhat nasal, mutilated and wrangled roughly from his throat.

“You can’t,” Dan repeated, concerned. At that Walter crumpled, drawing himself into a ball.

“Walter – are you okay? Don’t worry about the mug, okay? I’m sorry – I’m _sorry –_ what do you want me to do? Do you want me to call you a cab? I can lend you some clothes.”

The man didn’t respond. He was, for all intents and purposes, catatonic.

Worry eating away at him, Dan moved on autopilot, gathering a sweater, slacks, underwear, socks, a belt. He brought them to the living room, but stopped short at the sound of muffled sobbing.

Unsure of what to do, Dan hovered outside the door. He didn’t want to barge in – didn’t want to make worse whatever was going on. Was it a panic attack? A flashback?

 _You know nothing about him,_ he thought miserably. _You know nothing about what he’s been through. He’s the first person you’ve wanted to get to know since Laurie, and it’s fucked up now, royally, because you couldn’t stop thinking with your dick for five minutes._

Despair, self-pity, and guilt were a bad mix. Dan sat in the hallway of his own house, listening to Walter breaking down. After a stretch of time that Dan would estimate spanned a couple of hours, give or take a bit, Walter’s breathing slowed, and he fell silent. Anxious, Dan risked a look into the room.

The redhead was asleep, his closed eyes swollen, his face tear-streaked. He looked wrecked, and Dan felt shame strong enough to turn his stomach.

It seemed a poor apology to drape a blanket over the man and whisper a goodnight, but it was all Dan could think to do. He avoided looking at Walter’s face, soft and unguarded in sleep. It wasn’t a privilege he’d earned. Even tucking him in felt like a breach of trust.

Dan turned off the lights, and the music. He left the fire on. It was safe to let it run all night – he’d invested in a smart model. Self-regulating temperature. He gathered Walter’s clothes and put them in the dryer with his own.

In the darkness of his bedroom, he felt the weight of isolation on him like never before. The mattress was huge and cold. Dan tossed and turned, but couldn’t shake the sense that he’d betrayed whatever fragile trust Walter had in him. It scared him, how much that possibility hurt.


	9. B R E A K F A S T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some basking in retirement!Hollis to cure what ails you.
> 
> Oh man, I feel so conflicted about this chapter. On the one hand, I can see this being an actual conversation between friends - I've been in ones like this, where information is bantered around like it's no biggie. Still... if I was Walter, and I found out folks were talking about my upbringing? It seems really sketchy. I just felt the need to acknowledge that before the power dynamics even out in this fic, there's a bit more of this 'entitled!Dan' attitude that we have to put up with. He will get better, in time. We must be patient with him.
> 
> Also, fair warning, next chapter will get dark, because it's angry!Walter and angry!Walter's mind can be a scary place. Just figured I'd throw that out here now.
> 
> Lastly, some of you may be amused to know I'm now being spammed with ads for fucking Keurig pods, because I looked them up ONE TIME to get a name for Dan's tea. Fucking capitalism, lol.

* * *

B R E A K F A S T

Dan awoke to a hangover and an empty house. Save for the owl mug, the broken ceramic, and the stain, there was no evidence that Walter had been there at all. The man had taken his things from the dryer, and left the robe in a heap on the laundry room floor.

As the pounding in Dan’s head began to subside, and memories of the night before came flooding back, he groaned and hung his head, ashamed. He had, for all intents and purposes, felt someone up without consent. It was a low point for a man who tried to adhere to firm ethical standards. He rinsed out the owl mug, cleaned up the shards, and wrote a note to his cleaning woman about the stain, leaving the post-it on the fridge door, knowing she’d pass it when she loaded the dishwasher.

A shower did nothing to make Dan feel less sleazy, though it did help drive the grogginess away. Still, when he called the one person whose advice, he hoped, could aid him, his voice was weary and pained.

“Hollis? Hey, it’s Dan.”

“Dan! Are you okay? You sound under the weather.”

“Yeah. Just… had a rough night. Look, do you want to grab breakfast this morning?”

Hollis was surprised, but not averse. A plan was made, a cab was called, and soon, Dan was eating eggs benedict and listening to Hollis ramble on about his latest trip.

“You should go to Mexico,” the older man concluded. “You’d love the wildlife, the food. You’d get a hell of a tan, too.”

He held up his own arm, now shades darker than its natural hue, for emphasis.

Dan nodded, chewing absentmindedly.

“That’s not why we’re here, though, is it?” Hollis asked, not unkindly. Dan sighed and set his utensils down.

“Sorry… look, I really am glad you’re enjoying retirement. You look fantastic – traveling clearly agrees with you.”

Hollis nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

“I sense a but, here.”

Dan stared at his plate and sighed again.

“You know how you always tell me not to do anything you wouldn’t do?”

Hollis clicked his tongue.

“What did you do? Is it Laurie again? She’s sweet and all, Dan, but that ship has sail–”

“It’s not Laurie. It’s… well. You consider yourself kind of a blue-collar guy, am I right?”

Hollis raised an eyebrow.

“In the sense that I was a cop who came up from nothing, sure. In the sense that I have enough of a pension to take regular cruises to Mexico, less so. But yeah, for argument’s sake. Where’s this going, exactly?”

“How would I – how would you recommend I show interest in somebody when there’s a significant economic gap between the two of us?”

“Romantic interest?”

“Yeah.”

Hollis pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“How significant are we talking?”

Dan shrugged. “I mean, he’s a butcher, so –”

“Wait, he?”

Dan nodded.

“I told you,” he said, a bit petulantly. “I batted for both teams in college.”

Hollis held his hands up.

“Hey, I’m not passing judgement! Just surprised. But, then again, I guess the best way to break the Laurie habit is to go to the other extreme. A butcher you say? So he’s unionized, I take it.”

“I guess so, yeah. I never asked,” Dan admitted.

“How’d you meet him?” Hollis asked, taking a bite of his bagel. Dan shrugged.

“Uh… he sells me meat? At that place I told you about. Peterson’s.”

“Is that the place that sold those ribs you brought to my retirement party?”

Dan nodded.

“So. You went in for one kind of meat and came back for another kind, huh?”

Hollis waggled his eyebrows. Dan groaned.

“That was terrible.”

Hollis laughed through a mouthful of cream cheese.

“Honestly, I don’t think Walter likes me much. I mean, he doesn’t hide how he feels about the fact that I’m Jewish, or well-off, or liberal, or interested in him, for that matter.”

Hollis’s eyebrows rose again.

“Sounds like quite the catch. What’s the appeal? Does he have a big –”

“No!” Dan blustered. “Or – well, I don’t know! _Hollis –!_ ”

“What? I don’t know what men look for in other men!”

Dan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is serious, Hollis. I fucked up. Really bad, I think. And I need to fix it, before it’s too late.”

Hollis’s smile faded, switching to what Dan privately called ‘dad mode.’

“What happened?”

Regret mingling uneasily with the eggs benedict in his stomach, Dan reiterated the events of the night before, cringing when he got to the bit back at his house. Hollis shook his head.

“You’re on thin ice,” he admitted. “Just be glad you stopped yourself before you did something unforgivable.”

Dan paled.

“Hollis – I would never –”

“You’d be surprised how many people say that – lots of them after you book them. I’m not saying you would, Dan, I’m just saying… don’t put yourself in a position like that again. I’d hate to see something bad happen – to you or to somebody you care about.”

Hollis took another drink of coffee, giving Dan time to collect his thoughts.

“I feel awful about it. It’s just that… he’s fascinating. Lyrical. I don’t know why but I just feel like there’s good in there, buried under years of hate. But… I can’t reach him – and the harder I try, the more he slips away.”

The older man considered this.

“No one likes to be a project. Could be you’re giving him the impression you want to change him. That sort of thing can scare a man off.”

“I do want to – I mean, not completely. If you could hear him, though, I swear, you’d see what I mean. Sometimes he’s so intense, and other times, there’s this flicker of something… sweet, in a weird way. All red hair and freckles and angry eyes - but they're sad eyes, too. The poor guy grew up in a children’s home, Hollis, and after the way he reacted last night… God knows what happened to him in there.”

At the mention of the home, a curious look passed over Hollis’s features.

“Hang on, how old did you say this guy is?”

Dan offered his best estimate.

"A redhead?"

"... yes?"

“And what’s his name? Walter. Walter what?”

“Kovacs,” Dan replied, puzzled. Hollis whistled in disbelief.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Dan stared at him, fork hovering over his eggs.

“You know him?”

Hollis shook his head.

“Knew him. I had heard the little guy was taken into care, but I never knew what happened to him after that. I arrested his mother a few times.”

“Do I want to know what for?”

“It’s a matter of public record. She used to turn tricks out of their apartment.”

The eggs on Dan’s plate had grown cold. He stared down at them, feeling sick.

“She didn’t… he wasn’t…”

Hollis guessed what Dan was unwilling to say.

“Far as we know, nobody interfered with him. At least, officially. She denied it, he wouldn’t say one way or the other, and the docs cleared him. If anything ever happened, it didn’t leave marks.”

Dan shut his eyes, willing his mind not to imagine all sorts of late-night crime show inspired horror stories.

“What was he like?” he forced out.

Hollis shrugged.

“Walt was alright. A lot like most other kids with bad home lives who we'd see from time to time. He was quiet. Shy too. Really slow to come out of his shell. He loved anything with sugar in it - I remember that. Candy bars, cookies… I even caught him sneaking sugar packets when I went to get his case worker a coffee. He loved us cops too – once he warmed up to us he had a million questions. Where did we put the criminals, how did the sirens work on the cop cars, what make of gun did we carry. He was a keener – I half expected him to become a police officer himself. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a butcher, but you can’t always tell where folks will end up.”

“He loves his job,” Dan said, and meant it. “I think it’s the only thing that really matters to him.”

Hollis nodded and scratched his chin.

“Well, good. I’m glad he made something out of a bad start. Can’t say I’m happy to hear he’s such an asshole, though. Still. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a lot worse, growing up like that. I’ve seen serial killers start from better circumstances than that kid’s.”

They settled up the bill and left the bistro. As he turned to go, Hollis felt Dan grab his arm – hold him back.

“Can I… can I ask you for a favor?”

Hollis nodded.

“What do you need?”

“Would you meet with Walter – maybe,” and he winced at how pathetic he sounded, “maybe just... help me talk to him – make him see that I’m not out to hurt him?”

Hollis blinked.

“Wow. You’ve really fallen hard, huh?”

Dan held out his sleeve.

“Note the presence of my heart,” he joked. Hollis chuckled.

“You _are_ a bit of a sap,” he agreed. “Well – there’s nothing wrong with being a little soft-hearted. Tell you what – if you convince him to talk to you again, and you tell me a time and place, I’ll be there. If only to see how the kiddo grew up.”

Dan shook his hand firmly.

“Thank you so much. That really means a lot. I’m gonna need all the help I can get putting this back together.”

Hollis had a bemused look on his face. Trust Dan to go from hopelessly carrying one torch to hopelessly carrying another. Keeping his doubts to himself, the old cop simply nodded, and wished him luck.


	10. F L E S H

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walter... snaps, a bit. A lot really. Well. You've been warned.
> 
> Also, my headcanons for this fic are as follows:  
> Walter is 45 - he has worked for Mr. Peterson since he was 15, though the first few years were apprenticeship and not paid/official. So, 30 years of acquaintance.  
> Peterson's reaction, in this chapter, is extreme, but also appropriate for an in-the-moment response. Given what he walks in on.  
> Walter was never molested, per-say. However, this chapter does suggest some pretty shitty childhood trauma stuff, that may be disturbing to some readers. SERIOUSLY YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED BUT I AM PUTTING IT IN CAPS. TRIGGER WARNING Y'ALL. TRIGGER WARNING.
> 
> As for the (not fragmented/flashback chaos) explanations of said trauma, that will occur later on, either entirely in the fic, or partially in the fic and partially in an author's note.
> 
> Finally, thanks for all your lovely comments, folks. I promise I"ll try to reply to them all. I'm just insanely swamped with school work right now. But I have read them all and love them. Also, one of you made a playlist of atmospheric indie music and I just wanted to give you a shout out because that is the coolest thing anyone's done for me in a long time. So props to you for that.

F L E S H

Rage was a familiar thing. Swaddled in his anger, Walter weighed his cleaver in his hand. Studied the incandescent bulb’s reflection in the sharpened blade.

In the past, when people had crossed him, he’d retreated to his domain and known it to be safe – but here, among the flesh, Daniel had been – Daniel had intruded. Invited or not, the man had breached the sanctuary’s walls.

His fingers twitched on the cleaver handle.

There were liberties and then there were _liberties._ It was the difference between a hand ruffling his hair and a hand lingering on his leg. Neither were welcome, but only one was expressly _wrong._

The touch brought him back to his boyhood, and Walter was inundated in memories he’d thought himself inoculated against. Years of building walls, only to have Daniel roll in like a flood and wash everything away. It was all tangled up together, all guts and barbed wire, and Daniel had forced it down his throat.

There was no difference.

Daniel and his filthy foreign spices, his wealth, his demands, and the way he twisted Walter into something false. Walter, parting his lips for a whipped cream covered finger. Walter, parting his lips for the push of another boy’s tongue. Walter parting his lips for – no, _no,_ _we don’t go back there,_ _we **don’t**_ – Walter breaking a little boy’s fingers and running screaming to Sister Clare, hiding behind her dark skirts and sobbing ‘he did devilry to me – hate him, hate him – had to snap his hands because his hands have Satan in them –’

_Thunk._

The cleaver struck the side of beef. The impact made Walter’s nerves sing.

Punishment for this. Punishment for that. Punishment for violence. Punishment for feeling.

Never punishment for the boy, who could lie convincingly, hands bruised and cherub face streaked with tears. _‘He kissed me, Sister, he kissed me and broke my fingers when I wouldn’t kiss him back –’_

Never punishment for the men, slipping greedy fingers into little children’s mouths. Poking at loose teeth. ‘ _Got a little problem there, son? Shh – don’t cry – anyone would respond to –’_

Wet sounds like fornication – blade thrusting into flesh – penetrating tissue – and Walter panting a death rattle. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

If he shut his eyes, it was Daniel he was cutting up. He’d never done it, but he’d imagined – since he was a child, he’d imagined. First time in the shop, 15 and Peterson putting a cleaver in his hand saying ‘ _show us your stuff, kid.’_ He’d made his first cut and thought _this must be what killing feels like._

He shut his eyes. Swung once, twice. Third time, he missed the mark – lost his grip. The cleaver clattered to the floor with a cacophony.

Didn’t matter. Walter didn’t need _blades._

It was natural – bare hands gripping cold, dead flesh. Too cold – it should’ve been warm – it should’ve been warm and plump and living –

Didn’t. Matter.

“Beggars and choosers,” the butcher growled.

Handfuls of flesh. Tissue between his fingers. Under his fingernails. He wanted it in his mouth – he wanted it bloody and raw – and why couldn’t he – when other things had been in that mouth, fingers fat and filthy pressing obscenely over milk teeth – fingers on his mouth again, Daniel’s fingers, and he opened for him – why had he let him in – and why, if he didn’t want that, why couldn’t he have _this –?_

“Walter, I forgot to tell you – we’ll be needing an order of – _Jesus Christ.”_

A voice. Peterson?

Walter blinked. Clarity, focus. Peterson, white-faced, eyes bulging. The hum of the air conditioner. Metal on his tongue – no. Not metal.

Bloody… hands.

“What the fuck have you done?”

Peterson’s voice was shaking. Walter stared down at his palms. Little blobs of beef clung to his skin. Nestled in between his teeth.

“Everything is fine.”

Walter’s tongue moved oddly around the syllables.

“Everything is fine, Mr. Peterson. Will get onto your order right awa–”

“Like hell you will!”

The older man was shaking, face contorted in rage, disgust… fear.

“My wife told me you were nuts,” he accused. “I should never have let you set foot in this place!”

Confusion, and then panicked realization, cold as walking into the industrial freezer on a hot day.

“No – Mr. Peterson, I – I’ve been a good worker for thirty years –!”

“You’ve been a fucking time bomb! Look at yourself, you – you _fucking maniac!”_

The hot prickle of shameful tears came unbidden to Walter’s eyes. He took a step forwards as Peterson recoiled.

“Please,” he begged, shame now overwhelmed by desperation as he sank to his knees on the concrete floor, “– I need the work!”

“See if I care! Do you know how much money your fucking spree will cost me?”

“Mr. Pet–”

“Get the fuck out of my store. Now, or I’m calling the police!”

Walter moved to retrieve his cleaver – it was his after all – one of his only liquidatable assets if he was truly to be unemployed, but Peterson produced a cellphone and shook his head, finger poised to dial.

“You have ten seconds! Ten. Nine.”

Walter stumbled through the plastic strips into the bright florescent whiteness of the front of the shop.

“Eight. Seven.”

“Please, Mr. Peterson, I’ll do anything –”

“Six. Five. Four.”

Walter’s back pressed against the glass pane of the front door. He shook his head violently, throat tightened to the point of pain, tears crawling clean trails through the red that stained around his mouth.

“Three. Two. O–”

Walter staggered backwards, into the street.

“Don’t do this,” he screamed, dizzy with horror. “Am begging you!”

“Get lost!” came the response, “and don’t come back - lunatic!”

Walter ran into the nearest alley. Sank to the ground beside a dumpster. Sobbed and cowered like a kicked dog.

Where could he go? Sanctuary was gone – his apartment was a hellhole only bearable because his Eden was here. Without the Peterson’s –

He moaned in pain. Vomited so suddenly and violently he could not turn his head. Undigested bits of raw beef peppered his uniform apron. The soiling was a vile desecration. The apron would be ruined. Even if he washed it – it would carry that stain forever. Walter shuddered, shut his eyes, and heaved again.


	11. W I N G S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings get felt. Things get said.  
> Hollis is a good guy to know.
> 
> Set one month after the last chapter's events.

* * *

W I N G S

Hollis sat back on Dan’s leather couch, smiling broadly as Dan brought in a platter of homemade buffalo wings.

“Not like you to make such pedestrian food,” he teased, “not that I’m complaining. It was nice of you to invite me over, even though I know I’m not really here to ‘watch the game.’”

Dan feigned innocence, sitting beside him and grabbing a wing.

“I can be as much of a macho guy as you, Hollis,” he responded and Hollis chuckled.

“Yeah, but for one thing, you never said what game I was here to see.”

Dan took a bite of chicken.

“Okay, fair enough. You saw through me. Chalk one up for the old timer.”

Hollis grinned.

“So, what’s up?” he asked, sucking blue cheese sauce off his finger. Dan sighed.

“I think things are worse than I thought they were. With Walter.”

Hollis raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not there anymore. I’ve been back three times in the last month and he’s never there.”

“Maybe he’s sick?”

Hollis threw his chicken bone into the plastic ‘bone bowl’ Dan had brought out for the occasion.

“No, you don’t understand. He would never abandon his post like that. He loves his job, Hollis. More than anything. And it… it gets worse.”

Hollis sat back, wiping his hands clean on a napkin, and settled in for a revelation. When Dan spoke, he sounded on the verge of tears.

“I ran into Mr. Peterson the other day, and asked him if Walter was sick. He told me he’s been fired.”

Hollis sat up straighter, frowning.

“Why –”

“Apparently he went… completely postal. Peterson found him in the butchery room tearing meat off a side of beef with his bare hands. With his _teeth._ He’d hacked the heck out of it too with his cleaver. It was a total write-off. Peterson said when he talked to him it was like he just snapped back into reality. Like coming out of a trance.”

Hollis’s frown deepened.

“Dan –”

“Is it my fault? Did I seriously destroy a person’s life? I don’t think I can handle that.”

“No. Dan, it’s not your fault. I know Walter – knew him. He’s a tough guy. You can’t destabilize a guy like that easily. Whatever’s going on, it’s been brewing for a hell of a lot longer than a few weeks.”

Dan sighed, relieved that Hollis confirmed his belief. That it wasn’t entirely his fault. He still felt depressed about it, though, and it showed on his face.

“Hollis,” he ventured slowly, “would you be amenable to a suggestion?”

Hollis waited for Dan to continue. The younger man sighed and turned his half-eaten chicken wing over in his fingers.

“Would you come with me, to his apartment? I want to check on him.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Hollis began, but Dan cut him off.

“It may not all be my fault, that he’s lost his job and that his life is a mess, but it’s partly my fault. I didn’t help him, at least. I need to do this. Please, come with me?”

It was Hollis’s turn to sigh.

“Okay,” he said at last. “But bring your phone. God forbid, we may need to call for help if he’s in distress. Or a threat.”

Dan nodded.

“Right.”

The drive to Walter’s neighborhood was tense. They took Hollis’s car – it was old and cheap and not likely to get stolen. On the way, Hollis stopped at a candy store and bought some barley sugar candy. When Dan asked about it, Hollis simply said he remembered giving some to Walter, as a kid.

“Maybe it’ll help,” he shrugged.

Truth be told, Hollis was worried about both Walter and Dan. He knew Dan well enough to know he could be his own worst enemy, could pick apart a failure for months and make himself feel responsible for just about everything, if you let him. Walter was a wildcard, but not entirely. He had no idea what he’d find in the apartment, but until he got there, all he could picture was that hurt little freckled face, looking at him in wonder as he explained what police training was like. Hanging off his every word.

The apartment was not the worst that Hollis had ever seen, or been in. but it didn’t bode well. Places like it were red flags – you were bound to get called to them eventually for an overdose or for child neglect or for a domestic disturbance. In his experience, rich people were just as fucked up as poor ones, but the poor folks didn’t have the luxury of hiding it.

Dan pressed the buzzer for a random apartment – Hollis watched, eyebrow arched, as he lied their way in. The younger man cast him a sheepish glance.

“Pretend you didn’t see that,” he said with a nervous grin.

The elevator ride was unremarkable, except for the way that Dan kept telling himself to ‘breathe’ quietly, giving a kind of one-man pep talk that Hollis would normally have teased him for. Given the circumstances, Hollis was glad of it. Dan could be twitchy in a crisis, sometimes.

The younger man led the way to Walter’s apartment, and, after pausing to collect himself, knocked on the door. Nothing. He tried again. A lengthy pause, and then a muffled, miserable ‘go away.’

“Walter, I came to apologize –” Dan began, but was cut off with a shout.

“Say another word and I’ll tear your tongue out, Dreiberg!”

Dan winced and looked worriedly at Hollis, who held up a hand to shush him. Leaning in close to the door, the old cop gently spoke.

“Walt, it’s me. Hollis Mason – you remember me? I’m a friend of Dan’s. I used to be your friend too, years ago. Still could be, if you like. I don’t like butting in like this, but, you know how it is. I’m a cop. I can’t sit idly by while you make threats.”

Incoherent grumbling. Then:

“Deserves it.”

Hollis mulled that over.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it’s a bit harsh. I only know one side of the story, right now.”

A pause. Hollis continued.

“If you open the door, we can talk about this. You, me and Dan. Just me and you. I don’t think it’d be responsible of me to leave you and Dan alone together right now.”

He held his breath for a moment, and then played his trump card.

“I have red candy.”

Hesitation, and then footfalls. The door opened a crack.

“Candy,” Walter said, and wormed his hand out through the gap. Hollis nodded.

“I’ll give it to you, don’t worry. Why don’t you let me in?”

Walter glared daggers at Dan.

“Not him,” he pointed. Hollis nodded.

“He can wait out here.”

The door opened the rest of the way, and Hollis passed through it. It shut behind him with a heavy sound.

Alone in the hallway, Dan considered his options. He could wait in the car. He could hum to himself and try not to eavesdrop.

 _At this point, I’m already sitting at rock bottom_ , he decided, and stepped closer to the door. He could hear talking – most of it inaudible – but little bits came through. At first it was just an angry diatribe, calling Dan every name in the book, but then Hollis said something, soft and mumbled, and Walter’s tone changed.

“… not my fault. Took liberties… didn’t ask…”

“He wants to say sorry,” came Hollis’s voice, reassuring. Calm.

“… wants things … hateful …”

“I think he just wants to talk to you.”

Incomprehensible muttering.

“To be fair, you didn’t tell him. You just ran off.”

“He tried to –”

“Look, Walt. I know Dan. I know that he can sometimes make an ass of himself. Hell, he does it on a regular basis. But I also know he’d never knowingly hurt somebody for personal gain. He’s a good guy – he’s really trying his best to be your friend.”

Something scathing, spat out in haste.

“Well, yeah. Maybe more than just ‘friends.’ But if you don’t want that, and you tell him – properly, not just by storming off with things half said, I would bet my life that he’d respect that.”

Dan heard Hollis’s telltale ‘getting up out of a chair’ grunt, and backed up from the door, which promptly opened enough for Hollis to step out into the hallway.

“He’s willing to talk to you,” Hollis said. “But the door will stay unlocked and I will stay right here. I will come in and split you two up if I hear things getting hairy, alright?”

“Thank you,” Dan nodded. “Thank you so much.”

“Just go in, and try to think with your brain this time,” Hollis smiled wryly, and got out of Dan’s way.

The apartment was in shambles. Broken dishes littered the floor – Dan recognized it as Walter’s set. He bent down and picked up a jagged piece, staring at the cheerful, kitschy pattern.

“I am so sorry,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Walter, I am –”

Walter snarled.

“Sorry! Sorry to men like you is ‘how much was it worth?’ You can't throw money at this to make it go away.”

“I didn’t mean –”

The look Walter gave him made him fall silent.

“You had no right,” he said, his voice low and murderous. “What you did.”

“What _did_ I do, Walter? When did I go too far? Because, one minute, you seemed to be tolerating me, and the next –”

“Shouldn’t have tolerated you,” Walter interrupted. “Shouldn’t even know you! You cost me my job!”

“I know – I am so sor–”

“What will I do, hurm? What will I _do,_ Daniel?”

“Could you –”

“Can’t! Can’t work – too old, no experience but Peterson’s. Can’t get a reference. No high school diploma, Daniel! No _fucking future.”_

Dan couldn’t recall a time where Walter had ever cursed like that around him. Dan took a step towards him, pleading with his eyes.

“Can I… can I ask you something?” he ventured.

Walter scowled, but didn’t cut him off.

“At what point did I go too far for you? Was it when I kissed you, or before?”

Walter threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

“Back to the filth! All the same, rich men. What do you want? Not to be friends, no! Why can’t you _go away?”_ he growled.

“I just... I don't know!” Dan admitted. “You're so damn _real_ , man! You're so much more... you make me feel –”

“Not my job. To make rich men feel. To make you try disgusting things with me.”

“I said I’m sorry! I was drunk –”

The words were spoken in haste and Dan immediately regretted it. Walter hit him, finally, and it shamed Dan, how much he thrilled from it.

“You are a weak, bloated, capitalist eunuch,” Walter growled. Dan blinked at him, dazed.

“Walter,” he groaned. “You’re right! You’re right, and I’d say I’m sorry but the truth is I’m not, completely. I’d rather have you hate me than have you ignore me – and that is the honest, fucked up, unhealthy truth. I know it’s pathetic, but I don’t even care, anymore! Maybe it’s some kind of masochism; maybe I’m just lonely. I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t hate you, not like you hate me.”

Walter lowered his fist and stared at him.

“You disliked me from the start. At first, I tried to change myself. To change your mind. The truth is, maybe you’ve been right all along. Maybe I should never have interfered and I’m sorry I got involved, but honestly, meeting you has been the first thing that made me feel like there’s blood in my veins again. You have no idea what it’s like – walking around like you’re taxidermy, with nothing real inside you. Just skin.”

Dan turned his head. Bared his cheek.

“You can hit me again.”

Walter made a strangled noise and shook his head.

“Wrong. All of this.”

“I know –”

“No! You aren’t _listening,_ Daniel. You never listen!”

He punched the wall in anger, leaving a fist-shaped hole behind.

“Try me,” Dan insisted. “You never try me. What have you got to lose?”

“You don’t even know me,” Walter stated. “You know nothing about me, and you claim to feel – it’s lust, Daniel. It’s a sin you’re feeling. And it’s called lust. That is all it is. Push it out of your mind and you’ll learn to ignore it… and one day, it will just be gone.”

Dan took another step forwards.

“Is that what you do?” he breathed. Walter’s blush gave him away.

“I don’t know you,” Dan admitted, “but you don’t know me, either. If I don’t know a lot about you, it’s not for lack of trying. I want to understand you. You’re the first person I actually _want_ to understand.”

Walter frowned.

“Not a specimen.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’re right to say I’m weak – sometimes I am. I admire you, because you aren’t. You’re a fighter, Walter. There’s a lot about you I wish I could imitate.”

Walter shook his head in disbelief.

“Not all of it,” Dan clarified. “Not all of what you do. You can be difficult, hateful, and downright scary, sometimes. But the way you’ve made a life for yourself, that’s _strength._ I never had to work for a living. If I don’t write a word for another ten years, I can still afford to live the way I’m accustom. It’s meaningless, the money, the lifestyle. It’s mine, but it’s not mine, because I didn’t earn it, and I wish you could see that you’re the first person who ever gave it meaning. Gave me meaning. So yeah, I will admit I’ve been persistent – too pushy. I will own up to that. But if you found something that made the chaos and the misery of the world a little more bearable, wouldn’t you fight for it? I know you would. You’re too smart not to.”

Walter sat down on his bed. Wiped absently at his mouth.

“Coward, Daniel,” he said softly.

Dan nodded.

“I know I am –”

“Not just _you._ ”

Dan crossed the room, hovering near the bed. When Walter didn’t throw another punch at him, he sat, tentatively, down.

“Never fought. Things in my mouth. Tongues and fingers.”

He closed his eyes, blocking out the room.

“I didn’t put fin –”

Dan cut himself off. Those words weren’t meant for him.

“It’s just as bad,” he continued. “With men as with women. Just as sick. Only, with women, it’s for making children. A means to an end.”

He swallowed hard, painfully.

“Never pursued fatherhood,” he clarified. “And one’s as sick as the other –”

Realization dawned and Dan nodded gently.

“So you’ve never –”

Walter shook his head, now red to the tips of his ears.

“It doesn’t matter that it’s you,” he forced out. “Could be anyone. Just as bad.”

Walter reached up and scratched his nose roughly.

“You think it’s natural,” he said, accusatorially.

“Sex? Yeah, I do,” Dan admitted. “I mean, it’s awkward and goofy and embarrassing sometimes. But that’s natural too.”

“Natural is savagery. Natural is animals interbreeding in pits. Eating their young. Natural is _disgusting.”_

“Who taught you that?” Dan murmured. “Who taught you that, Walter?”

Walter shrugged, coiling around himself, tighter and tighter, like a spring.

“Even if I wanted to,” he whispered, eyes shut so tight it hurt, “I couldn’t. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

Dan inched closer.

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

Walter looked back at him, conflict raging on his features.

“Don’t trust you,” he exhaled. Dan nodded.

“Don’t trust you either.”

They watched each other. Felt each other’s breath on their faces. Dan tilted his head forward, rested his brow against Walter’s. The redhead flinched, but didn’t retreat. For once, Dan didn’t speak. Walter was glad of it.

It was unusual. Strange. Closeness without a purpose. Just to sit. To share silence together.

A soft knock on the door broke through the stillness.

“Everything okay?” Hollis called. “Only I was thinking of going for a drive. Anybody feel like coming along?”

Dan blinked. His mouth was dry. His forehead tingled. He got up from the bed and stood, facing the door.

“Where to?”

“Coney Island?”

It was absurd. An odd huffing noise made Dan turn back to the bed.

Walter was… laughing.

“Coney Island,” Dan echoed. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has such a life of it's own. Goodness gracious.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack. 
> 
> One: I have never been to Coney Island. All I learned I learned from google.
> 
> Two: Have a short filler chapter to move the story along a bit. Cute Hollis and Walter father-son affection, with third-wheel Dan. :)

* * *

H O T   D O G

Coney Island was a poor reflection of what New York’s collective impression of it was. The glory years of theme parks were over decades ago, and the investment of Trump Sr. hadn’t done much to dispel the sense of melancholy the place instilled in Dan. No matter how many times he went, he found it seemed inauthentic when compared to memories of the ‘good old days’ – which, admittedly, Dan had never been a part of. Walter seemed equally saddened when he asked Hollis if Steeplechase Park was still open. Apparently, Hollis had told him about it when he was a kid and he had set his heart on seeing it. Dan was shocked that someone could've lived their whole life in New York and not been to Coney Island, and had said as much, whereupon Walter, defensively, had said he had made a promise, had been saving it for when Hollis could take him. A man of his word - even when the word was given more than quarter of a century ago.

“Sorry, Walt – that place closed up in ’64. Nah, it’s all changed hands a bunch of times since then. And then the Hurricane… well. But they’ve done a nice job, patching things up. It’s not the same, but it’s as fine a place as any to grab a hotdog and stretch your legs.”

“At least the logo looks the same,” Dan said brightly as Hollis paid for admission to Luna Park for the three of them. It garnered them some odd looks – three grown men going to the amusement park together – but once they were inside, they were anonymous in the large crowd of tourists and families out for an afternoon.

Dan had expected, given Walter’s… Walter-ness, that the redhead would hate being surrounded by so much chaos and noise. To be fair, he did flinch a few times, and growled at a small child who ran into him by accident, but the rest of the time, he seemed… entranced. Dan hanged back a few paces, watching the shorter man listen to Hollis as the old cop told the story of the park. Most of it was common knowledge – stuff any New Yorker would’ve heard hundreds of times – but Walter lapped it up. He would chime in periodically with a short addition of his own, and when Hollis would nod, Walter would smile. Actually, honestly, smile.

It dawned on Dan, slowly, that he was the third wheel in this trio. He didn’t mind, but it made something in his chest tighten and ache to see Walter, lit up with joy, trailing after Hollis like a puppy.

No, Dan amended. Like a _son._

Dan liked amusement parks well enough. In theory. The innovation of the rides, the mechanics of them, fascinated him, and always had. Still, he wasn’t too into riding them. Ever since he was about 8, when his glasses flew off his face on a coaster, it just seemed like tempting fate. On the rare occasions he went for such things, usually with Laurie, whenever a new thrill ride opened up, he wore contacts. The impromptu nature of this visit hadn’t given him time to put them in, so he was content to stay earth-bound and watch as Hollis and Walter queued up for the Balloon Exhibition.

They got a car to themselves, with a red-painted balloon, and as the ride ascended slowly, Dan could see Walter talking excitedly to Hollis and pointing things out in the skyline.

It was _cute._

After a few rides, Hollis bought them each a hotdog. Dan found himself chuckling, amused that a meat snob like Walter would eat what was, as he’d once heard it crudely yet accurately described, likely to be mostly cow anus. Walter devoured the hotdog, still talking animatedly to the old cop, pausing only to suck some mustard off his fingers. Dan’s laughter caught in his throat and he mentally filed the image away for later perusal.

Hollis drove Walter back to his apartment, whereupon the small man hugged him tightly and spoke thickly, voice rough with emotion.

“Nice to see you, Hollis.”

Walter then turned to Dan and fidgeted, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re… forgiven. For your transgressions.”

He held his hand out stiffly and Dan suppressed a grin, reaching out to shake it. When the dry, calloused palm met his own softer one, he was surprised that Walter came reeling in and, screwing up his face and shutting his eyes tight, pecked Dan on the cheek so quickly and chastely Dan could not so much as blink.

“Should do this again,” Walter forced out, before turning and racing into his building at breakneck speed. Dan stared at the door as it shut, smiling ear to ear. He became slowly aware of Hollis laughing at him and turned to meet the old man’s gaze.

“What?”

“You really are a sap,” the retiree snickered. “The look on your face – honest to God, Dan, that is the dopiest expression I’ve ever seen on a human being.”

Dan reddened but chuckled good-naturedly.

“Yeah, well… hard not to feel sappy when you get the kind of kiss that girls in poodle skirts and bobby socks could only dream of.”

Hollis shook his head, chuckling.

“Yeah. Walt always was a bit stuck in the wrong era. He does like you, you know. He’s just… not used to people being all that nice to him.”

Dan nodded.

“I figured. Want to grab a beer back at my place?”

Hollis shrugged.

“I’m driving so better make that a coffee. Rustle up one of those little pod thingies and you’ve got yourself a deal.”


	13. C H I C K E N     S A L A D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Walter being Walter. More Hollis being an old softie.  
> Also more Catholic!Walter headcanons and a nod to canon!Daniel (writer!Dan likes to tinker/invent in his spare time.)
> 
> Just a short fluffy filler chapter before we get into the meat (heh heh) of some festive Christmas-y chapters and some more Dan/Walter goodness.
> 
> Back to writing this after the semester from hell. It's good to be 'home.' If meat!porn (that is glacially progressing towards porn I swear) is 'home,' that is.

* * *

C H I C K E N     S A L A D

Unemployment didn’t suit Walter. He needed something to do with his hands, needed something to do with the musculature under his skin which remained tight and straining, as if bracing for a blow. He was on edge, and all the brisk walks around the block didn’t change that.

There were practical reasons for returning to work as well. As the air turned cold and winter threatened to come storming in at any moment, the pressure was on to ensure the ex-butcher managed to keep a roof over his head. His landlady, to his surprise, had agreed to one month’s leniency on his rent, on account of him never having pissed in the elevator or overdosed in the stairwell, which was more common than one might expect, in his tenement, but that clemency would only last for so long.

(Of course, Daniel had offered to cover his rent, but Walter would rather sell his kidney than take the man up on such an act of charity.)

Inspector Mas– Hollis, now – was more reasonable. He had intended to clean out his garage for years, he said, and was more than willing to pay for an extra pair of hands. Walter entered into the agreement expecting to hate the experience, not because he disliked Hollis, but because he would be in the other man’s home, in his private space, and the thought upset him. There was no way to articulate why, even to himself. (That he’d harbored childish fantasies of finding out the policeman was his father, once, of being allowed in the man’s home to stay, was an irrelevance.)

With that in mind, Walter went to the retired cop’s house, hesitating on the step, feeling strange and small and foolish in a way he disliked. The feelings lessened somewhat when Hollis, upon opening the door, welcomed him in with a smile and the promise that, after a few hours’ work, they could take a break for lunch.

Walter was surprised to find that he liked sorting through boxes with Hollis. They talked about policing and news and public policy, and, as the day wore on, philosophy and politics and religion. Eventually, the conversation turned to butchery, and Walter found himself willing to speak.

“So, what made you want to become a butcher?”

Hollis asked the question as he plugged string after string of Christmas lights into the wall outlet, testing the bulbs.

“Met Peterson. He offered training for free. Liked the work.”

Hollis placed another dud strand on the ‘throw out’ pile.

“What about it do you like?”

“Skilled profession. Physical. Don’t mind the blood.”

Walter said it without hesitation as he examined a ten-year-old calendar, warped with water damage and age.

“Where’d you have wound up otherwise? Police?”

Walter squinted at September – Aerial Shot of the Grand Canyon.

“Mm. Or seminary.”

“A priest, huh?”

Walter shrugged. He hadn’t thought about it since before he met the Petersons. The idea, now, seemed absurd, but in his youth, when he still woke most nights from dark, disturbing dreams, it had been appealing to think of being part of something entirely without sin.

“Considered it.”

He knew better, now.

“Say – would you look at that!”

Hollis’s expression of wonder made Walter pause and look over. The older man was grinning down at a dusty cardboard box.

“It’s my old Meccano set! Didn’t know I still had this – huh. Might even be worth something nowadays.”

Walter studied the faded label on the box with interest.

“Daniel likes tinkering.”

He didn’t know what made him say it, but the question was clear in his tone, much as he tried to cover it with a forced bit of coughing. Hollis raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t say? Dan is a bit of a gadget guy… you know, you might be right. I think he would like something like this.”

Hollis waited a beat, but Walter didn’t take the bait, staring down at a deflated basketball, ears burning.

“Of course, I already got the man a typewriter. One of those digital ones that works with your computer or some such nonsense. Dan’s had his heart set on it, and I’ve already implied he was getting that for the holidays this year. I’d hate to disappoint him now.”

Another beat. More silence.

“Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you give it to him?”

Walter opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t articulate why exactly that felt wrong.

“Said it could be worth something,” he muttered lamely.

“Indeed, it could – to Daniel! Unless you’ve already got a gift picked out, I mean.”

They both knew he didn’t – he didn’t even have the money to entertain the idea.

“Come on, Walt. I insist.”

Walter stared at the box in Hollis’s hands and then, haltingly, reached his arms out to take it.

“Well, that’s enough work for me for this afternoon,” the retiree yawned once his hands were free. “I’m getting too darn old for this. I’m gonna go upstairs and have a Coke and a chicken salad sandwich.”

Walter nodded.

“Have an extra one, if you’d care to join me,” Hollis added, so casually that Walter found himself nodding in spite of his principles. Charity, it was, but not the patronizing kind. That, at least, was a blessing.

“What are you doing for Christmas, anyway?” Hollis asked between bites of his sandwich. Walter shrugged. Watched bubbles fizz in his Coke.

“Go to Mass. Maybe… Daniel. Know he’s a Jew but… still should give him his present.”

“Tell me when you’re going and I can give you a lift! We can make an afternoon of it.”

Walter managed a small nod, cramming sandwich into his mouth. Hollis shook his head fondly and sighed.

“We’ll find you a good job in the New Year. Butcher with your skills? You’ll be snapped up, no problem.”

Walter swallowed hard.

“Henh. No letter of reference.”

“I’ll write you one myself if I have to. Pardon my French, but screw that Peterson guy anyway, turning you out on your ear like that.”

Walter shook his head.

“Deserved it. Was… unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional, my eye. You had a bad day. It happens to the best of us.”

Walter squirmed beneath the weight of Hollis’s gaze, disturbed at the way the man could make him feel twelve years old and useless. Then the eyes moved past him to the freezer, and Hollis was standing with a weary groan and a clicking of joints.

“Want to help me polish off the last of the Neapolitan ice cream?”

Perhaps, Walter conceded grudgingly, Hollis was simply the exception to his well-guarded rules and principles. Daniel too. Out of all the people he knew, really, two statistical anomalies were inevitable.

“I saved you the strawberry. Never was a fan, really.”

 _Anomalies,_ Walter thought firmly, as the pink sweetness dissolved on his tongue. _Yes._


	14. T U R K E Y   I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had a snack and it's 1 in the morning and now I'm too awake to go back to bed, so I finished up the next chapter. It's a bit... meatier than the last one. In terms of scale. But I digress.
> 
> Anyway, have some festive!Dan-and-Hollis interactions, some secular!Dan muddling through planning a Christmas party for Walter, and our resident bird nerd coming out to Laurie while dressing a turkey. And a brief OC we won't meet again. And bad jokes. SO many bad jokes.

* * *

T U R K E Y   I

“Hey, Hollis? What do you know about turkeys?”

Dan asked the question when balanced precariously over the front door of the old cop’s house, Christmas lights trailing down from his hands to where Hollis stood below, holding the base of the ladder with one hand, feeding lights skyward with the other.

“You’re the bird guy. Thanks for helping put these up, by the way.”

“No problem. And I didn’t mean live turkeys – I meant cooked. As in, do you know how to cook a turkey?”

“Isn’t that what the Internet is for?” Hollis smirked, parroting Dan’s go-to response for so many of the older man’s questions. Dan laughed ruefully and nodded.

“Yeah, yeah. I just wanted your input, is all. It wasn’t something we did in my family, and since I’ve lived alone, it seems like a waste to make all that food for just one person. Besides, I’ve never liked cooking poultry myself. At least, not when it’s whole.”

“Bird guy,” Hollis ribbed cheerfully. Dan stapled the last of the lights up and carefully descended the ladder.

“How’s that, then? Want to test them?”

“Later. When it gets dark. Let’s take a break – I’m beat.”

“Says the guy who held the ladder the whole time,” Dan teased, but followed Hollis in with a smile on his face. Phantom nosed at them both, taking in the smell of crisp winter air.

“Beer?” Hollis called from the kitchen.

“Please,” Dan shouted back, unwinding his scarf and shrugging off his coat. He left his boots by the door and wandered into the den, sinking into the couch with a sigh.

“I’m thinking of having a Christmas party!” he added. Hollis said something inaudible and reappeared with a cold one in each hand.

“Thanks.” Dan took his beer. “What did you say?”

“Oh, just ‘what’s brought this on?’ I mean, normally you’re…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you’re a bit of a Grinch, if I’m honest.”

Dan’s eyes widened.

“I am not! I put your lights up every year, Hollis. And I stop by for our annual bucket of chicken.”

“That you do.”

“And I put up my Grandma’s menorah.”

“That you do, too.”

“Well, then. Explain where exactly I’m lacking the holiday spirit?”

“You don’t have parties,” Hollis clarified. “You keep things… small.”

Dan shrugged.

“Only because everyone’s usually busy.”

“And they aren’t this year?”

Dan shook his head.

“I sent out invitations last month.”

It was Hollis’s turn to pretend to be insulted.

“You didn’t invite me!”

“Oh, come on – what else would you be doing? I knew you’d be free!”

Hollis fought back a smile and rolled his eyes.

“The insolence of the young…”

Dan snorted into his beer.

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I’m serious about needing your input, here. If not about turkeys, then about Christmas parties in general. I want to do this thing right, if I’m gonna do it at all.”

Hollis raised an eyebrow, reaching out with his free hand to scratch Phantom behind the ear as the dog padded over, wagging.

“What’s got into you?” he asked. “Not that I’m objecting, here.”

“It’s… okay, tell me if this is stupid,” Dan breathed, face pinking up some, “I… I thought maybe I could give Walter a… a good Christmas. On account of him being Catholic and not having any family and – and…”

Hollis cocked his head slightly, eyebrows creeping steadily higher.

“My house is huge!” Dan blurted out. “What the hell am I going to do there, anyway? I just. He grew up in a _children’s home_ , Hollis! He’s probably never had a good holiday season in his life!”

The old cop grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle as he took a swig.

“You really like the little fella, don’t you?” he said in wonder. “Funny, I still can’t get my head around that. I mean, don’t get me wrong – you’re great for him. God knows the kid needs the socialization. But… damn, Daniel. Why’d Laurie let you go, anyway? Way you keep at it, you’re making me wish I was the one getting wooed!”

Dan choked on a mouthful of beer as Hollis startled a guffaw out of him.

“Dear God, I hope you said ‘getting _wooed’_ there, man.”

It was Hollis’s turn to choke.

When the laughter subsided, the retiree sighed, thumbing at the damp label on the long-neck in his hand.

“I think Walter would love that,” he mused. “I only ever saw the kid on Christmas once, but it was the happiest he ever looked.”

Dan perked up, interested.

“At the home, you mean?”

“Mm. I was doing my part as a Santa and –”

“You were a Santa?” Dan exclaimed, grinning in disbelief. “No way! The kids wouldn’t buy that. Half a Santa, maybe. Santa’s lanky brother-in-law, perhaps.”

“Hey, they bought it! What can I say – I can act pretty darn well for a cop. Anyway, Walter pretty much glued himself to my side. It was kind of cute, to be honest, though he kind of tore my heart out when I asked what he wanted for Christmas.”

“What did he say?”

“I – I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t –”

“What, the sacred confidentiality between a Santa and a child? Come on, don’t leave me hanging, here!”

“He said ‘I don’t deserve any presents, sir.’ Honest to God, that’s what he said. I told him sure he did, he must have wanted _something_ and he went all quiet and then mumbled ‘I want my Dad to have a good Christmas.’ I got curious and asked who his dad was, and the kid clammed up. One of the other kids must’ve overheard us, ‘cause he yelled ‘Walter doesn’t _have_ a Dad.’ And – I mean, this is a Children’s Home – most of the kids didn’t have dads – but there was something in the way he said it, like he knew Walter was ashamed of it. I’ll never forget the way he curled in on himself. It was the most pathetic thing I ever saw in my life.”

Dan felt a pang in his chest at the image.

“What did you do?”

Hollis grinned.

“I waited ‘til the other kid was out of earshot and then I told Walter the bully’d be getting coal for Christmas.”

Dan smiled at that, but it was a pained smile. Hollis knew it well. Something about Walter inspired them in people.

“He’s had a rough life, y’know,” the old cop remarked. Dan nodded.

“I know.”

“I… I just hope you don’t expect too much of him. He’s… I hate the phrase ‘damaged goods’ but this is _Walter_ we’re talking about. I don’t know what you get up to with your partners and I’m perfectly content not hearing the details but… just don’t push him. That he’s even keeping you around is a big step for him.”

Dan furrowed his brow.

“Sounds like you care for him more than you’d care to admit.”

Hollis nodded, the previous traces of amusement gone from his face. _He looks old,_ Dan thought suddenly.

“When you’re a cop, there’s always a case or two that bothers you. The Kovacs were that case. His mother was a piece of work, I tell you. When we… when we finally got him out of there, he was so overwhelmed he called me ‘Dad.’ Just the once – I’m pretty sure it was an accident – but when you’re a young cop and this is the first time you’ve had your arms full of a neglected string-bean of a kid… well. Forgive me if I get a little protective.”

“I don’t mind,” Dan responded quickly. “I’m grateful for it. Walter is too.”

Hollis’s mouth twitched – not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”

The mental image of child Walter stuck with Dan, haunting him like the half-remembered horror of a bad dream. He imagined skinny arms and bruised knees and red hair sticking up at odd angles as he wheeled his cart through the isles of the nearest superstore. Lights – he needed lights, more than the single string of warm white ones he put up in the front window. Plastic trees, glitter snowmen, a little wooden reindeer… Dan, unsure of what would best suit his living space, bought it all.

“Wow, someone’s really getting into the Christmas spirit!”

Dan turned in surprise. A woman in her fifties was smiling at him as the toddler sitting in her cart gestured wildly at the excess of decorations in Dan’s.

“Oh, uh… yeah. You too, by the looks of it – nice candy canes.”

The boy had unwrapped one and was in the process of getting it stuck in his admittedly impressive baby afro. The woman nodded.

“We sure are. My grandson loves Christmas. Do you have any kids?”

Dan shook his head.

“No – there’s just me. But I’m having friends over, this year. First time I’m doing that, so we’ll see how it goes. I have to wrestle my way around a turkey, which I’m not looking forward to.”

The woman smiled, crows-feet deepening around her dark eyes, and she made a tutting sound.

“Young men like you don’t know the first thing about cooking. It’s no wonder you haven’t got a girl of your own,” she teased. “Here’s a tip from someone who cooks for fourteen people every December the 25th. Don’t. Skimp. On. Butter. And keep your stuffing out of the bird.”

Dan laughed, taken aback by the unsolicited advice. He grinned.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Put the butter under the skin before the turkey goes in the oven. Cuts down on basting time. Every time you open that oven door, you’re drying out the meat.”

She grinned back.

“Thanks, uh…”

“Lorraine. You’re welcome –”

“Dan.”

“You’re welcome, Dan. Good luck on your turkey.”

“Hey, if it works out, I’ll be sure to sing your praises.”

Dan turned to go, pausing to look back at the woman, now untangling the candy cane from her grandchild’s hair.

“And Merry Christmas!”

Dan always had considered himself to be a people person, and the Christmas cheer, as much as he found it a bit jarring, had him riding a natural high. The good mood replaced the thoughts of Walter’s dismal childhood as he paid for his purchases and carted all the knickknacks home.

Decorating took three days, and Dan was grateful for his ridiculously flexible work schedule. He was dicing his way through a small mountain of celery when his phone rang, and he put it on speaker so that he could keep his hands free.

“Hey, Dan.”

“Oh, hey Laurie! What’s up?”

“Nothing much – I just wondered if you’d like me to bring anything to this party of yours. Jon’s been baking brie wheels lately – they’re really good with crackers.”

“Sure, that sounds great.”

Dan’s smile showed in his voice. Laurie picked up on it immediately.

“What are you up to? You sound ecstatic.”

“I am currently preparing to shove a bundle of herbs up a turkey’s butt.”

Laurie snorted.

“Kinky. No but seriously – how are you? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in ages.”

She wasn’t wrong. Dan had been seeing less and less of her, and more and more of Walter.

“Sorry,” he said, and meant it. “New relationship. Kind of. It’s complicated. Good, though! Very good.”

“Oh, that’s great! Congratulations – do I know her?”

“Uh it’s him, actually.”

“Sorry? I can’t hear – you’re chopping?”

“Yeah, celery. I said ‘it’s him.’ A guy. Who I’m kind of. Sort of. Together. With?”

Laurie, to her credit, recovered quickly.

“Oh! Wow, okay, cool! I didn’t know you were, uh… are you…?”

“I’m bisexual,” Dan clarified. “Only I don’t tend to date guys because… Well, to be honest, I don’t tend to date anyone.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re out of your dry spell!”

Dan cringed. _If only,_ he thought, which probably counted as wallowing in self-pity, but he didn’t have it in him to care, not when he’d been nursing a case of blue balls for what felt like forever.

“So… who is he?”

This… this was where things were going to get weird… er. Weirder. _Still, better to do it now than at the party where there were appearances to keep up._

“Uh. Okay, so… you remember Walter?”

He could practically _hear_ Laurie thinking.

“No… nope. Sorry. Is he that barista who keeps giving you free muffins?”

“That only happened, like, one time, at most. And no. He’s my butcher.”

Silence. Dead air. Static on the line. Faintly, Dan swore he could hear a cricket chirping.

“Wait, the neo-Nazi?”

“He’s not a neo-Nazi, Laurie, Jesus! He’s –”

What _was_ he, even?

“– he’s a good… he’s… he cares about meat.”

_“What?”_

“Me! He cares about me, Laurie – he really does – he’s just… he had a really bad childhood. Like… really bad.”

“Bad how?”

“He – it was bad. Like, the cops were involved. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

A pause. Then a low whistle.

“Wow. You sure know how to pick them, huh.”

“Yeah. Look, don’t… just give him a chance, okay? For me?”

“Okay…”

She sounded skeptical. Frankly, if he’d been in her shoes, Dan reckoned he would be, too.

“Okay. Good. Tell Jon to bring the brie.”

“Will do.”

“Right. I gotta go stick my hand in a bird’s cavity, so…”

“Have fun.”

“Bye.”

The call ended. Dan sighed and stared down at the turkey, sitting, naked and spread-eagled, in its roasting pan.

“At least one of us is getting fisted tonight,” Dan said aloud, and then swore at himself, because really, there were bad jokes and then there were _bad_ jokes, and just because he was alone didn’t mean he should be encouraging them in himself.

 _God,_ he thought, tucking a sprig of rosemary under a clammy wing like some kind of grotesque twirling baton, _I really, really hope this is worth it._


	15. T U R K E Y      I I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walter would be a frustrating person to know in real life, let's be honest.
> 
> (Also, why hello AU!Adrian. Nice to see that your AU-ness has meant you've traded murdering people to being one of those unpleasant neighbours who get invited to everything and just stand there, talking themselves up and making everyone feel bad.)

* * *

 T U R K E Y   I I

Walter lifted the weighty metal iron off his radiator and commenced pressing his Sunday shirt. His movements were jerky and stilted, and he singed his cuff carelessly, his mind elsewhere.

Daniel was having a party.

His cleanest undershirt was yellowed with age, and the less said about his briefs, the better. Not that anyone was going to see them in all their threadbare glory – of course not. Still, the sight of them filled him with a new and unwanted anxiety even as he gracelessly stuffed his bony body into them.

He’d washed and shaved, unsure of what such fussing would accomplish, even more unsure of why the thought of meeting – and disappointing – Daniel’s friends filled him with dread.

 _If you embarrass him enough, maybe he’ll leave you alone,_ Walter mused, but that thought wasn’t the relief he hoped it would be.

He polished his shoes until they gleamed, and then scrubbed his hands raw, trying to get bootblack out from under his nails. He pressed his trousers too – old ones, pinstriped – and eyed his recent dollar store purchase – a novelty necktie – critically before grudgingly deciding that some show of seasonal spirit was expected of him. The cheap material – dark blue and patterned with tiny, dancing reindeer – fit like a noose around his neck.

No use delaying, now.

Walter cocooned himself in his coat and grabbed the Meccano set, neatly wrapped in some wrapping paper salvaged from Hollis’s garage. Walter was pleased with how it turned out – crisp folds and sharp corners, like the kind of presents you’d see wrapped in shop windows when he was a child. His skilled hands could be as dexterous with paper as with flesh, it seemed.

Hollis complemented the wrapping when he picked Walter up in his old car, which, even without Phantom being present, managed to smell of dog. He’d tuned the radio to a holiday station, and the chirpy-voiced soprano mangling a carol made Walter grit his teeth in distaste.

“Singing it wrong,” he muttered, just loud enough for Hollis to hear.

“I believe it’s called ‘jazz,’ Walter.”

“Doesn’t fit. Bing Crosby did a better job.”

The caterwauling ended, and the familiar forceful opening to ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’ crackled to life through the speakers.

“Speaking of which. You like this one? ‘The wrong shall fail, the right prevail’ sounds more your speed.”

Walter nodded. It was much better than some women gyrating to Jingle Bells, breathing too loud like some kind of perverse degenerate.

As the famous crooner declared ‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep,’ Hollis’s car shuddered its way along slick streets, churning through an ocean of dirty grey slush. Bing Crosby was followed by an instrumental ‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’ which was acceptable. Walter looked out of the passenger-side window, but the city sights didn’t hold his attention. He felt tightly coiled, like a spring in a mousetrap, and wondered who would push him to snap shut, who’d end up decapitated.

Probably Daniel. If Walter’s virtue could be represented by a crumb of cheese.

Walter’s eye twitched. The analogy was getting away from him.

Daniel’s house was always overly decadent, but as it came into view, Walter was torn between horror and a reluctant sense of awe. He had outdone himself – the whole exterior of the building was draped in lights, and animatronic lit-up reindeer grazed on the front lawn. Guests’ cars had already filled up the driveway, and Hollis was forced to park halfway down the block.

“You okay?” he asked as Walter marched beside him towards the Dreiberg residence, like a man on the way to the guillotine. Walter didn’t reply, but his grip tightened on Daniel’s Christmas present.

The sound of people laughing and talking over one another hit Walter like a physical blow the minute Daniel opened the door. Faint as it was, coming from the next room, it wormed its way into Walter’s ears and echoed there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d voluntarily been around so many people at once.

Daniel wasn’t facing him when he opened the front door, turning to shout something inane over his shoulder. Laughter and cheers followed, and Daniel faced forwards at last, beaming, eyes bright behind his glasses. Face flushed – alcohol – beer in his hand.

Daniel was dressed far more casually than Walter, his chest hugged by a forest green sweater with a shawl collar. It was form-fitting in a way most of the man’s clothes weren’t, and the knit fibers pulled taught across the writer’s soft middle. Walter found himself fixated on it – the slight swell of flab beneath the wool, the tender flesh of his pectorals, beginning to sag as age caught up to the man and his life of leisure began to take its toll. Walter’s own body was all muscle and bone, joints and angles. Daniel’s visible softness should have repulsed him, but Walter found it mesmerising instead, and the realization sickened him.

“Hey, great to see you! Come in, come in – here, let me get your coats!”

Walter stumbled forwards, trapped between Hollis and Daniel in the narrow entryway. His coat was pried off him and it was all he could do to hang onto the gift.

“Gift,” he said dumbly, tongue lying cold in his mouth like a dead eel.

“Oh, thank you! Just put it with the others -we’ll do presents after dinner – Hollis, did you find a parking space okay?”

Walter pushed past Daniel feeling vaguely betrayed and set the present down roughly on the coffee table, rumpling the paper.

More laughter from the next room. Walter stared down at the coffee table – at the chair where Daniel had kissed him – and suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“Hey – whoa! Easy, sorry to spook you!”

Daniel had approached him from behind. Walter hadn’t heard over the ringing in his ears. He swallowed hard, hands clenched into fists, and turned, his face revealing nothing.

“Wasn’t ‘spooked.’ Find your voice irritating up close.”

Daniel didn’t look like he bought it, furrowing his brow.

“Okay… uh. I like your tie.”

Walter wished his tie would catch on something and strangle him.

“La… luh… sweater. Like your sweater.”

He told himself it was worth the nausea the words inspired to see Daniel’s face light up like a beacon.

“Thanks… I think it’s a bit tight, actually. I really should work out… Laurie’s neighbour leads a Zumba class and –”

“No.”

Walter’s arm jerked forwards and he only just stopped it in time, recoiling with an abortive spasm.

“No?”

Walter’s face was a matchhead, freshly struck.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Walter turned around, ignoring the question, ignoring the tension in his throat and shoulders.

“See you’ve left your candelabra up. Seems inappropriate for a ‘Christmas’ party.”

The words curled, venomous and cruel, out from between his lips.

“And here I thought we’d moved past your reliance on hate speech to deflect personal questions. You know, I’d tone that down if I were you – Laurie already thinks you’re a neo-Nazi.”

The retort was like a cold drenching in ice-water. A sudden frigid blast of stark reality.

“Your friends know I shouldn’t be here. Foolishness, Daniel. Should never have involved me in this… farce.”

Dan’s sigh of frustration was an ugly sound.

“This isn’t a farce, Walter! This is… who do you think I did all this _for_ , anyway?”

Walter’s mind skidded to a halt.

“What,” he croaked, “are you trying to say.”

“Is that a question?” Dan shot back, showing his petty streak for just long enough to make Walter turn around in indignant anger.

“Da–”

Dan sighed, and something like disappointment broke over his face. Walter’s stomach gave a desperate lurch at the sight.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dan muttered, looking away now, shaking his head. “Maybe this whole thing was one big, stupid mistake. I just thought… I just wanted to do something nice for you. Guess I don’t know you at all, huh?”

Walter’s stomach ached again.

“If you really want to leave, you can –”

“Not used to crowds.”

The words fired out of Walter’s mouth like semi-automatic rounds. Dan looked back at him, confusion visible in his eyes.

“How can you – there’s only seven people here, including you! How can you be so crowd-shy – I thought you go to church, for God’s sake!”

Walter shook his head, defiant.

“Go to early Mass – schedule allows it. Only three old widows and me there.”

Dan’s expression slowly softened.

“Oh… oh, hell! If I’d known you were scared of crowds, I wouldn’t have – look, if it makes it any easier, they’re really not that bad, my friends.”

Walter scowled.

“Assume involvement in illegal fascist organization.”

“That was just – I shouldn’t have said that. I was mad. She doesn’t think that, really. Anymore.”

Walter stared at his shoes.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Only for your sake.”

Dan’s face lit up again.

“Thank you – you know, you might even like them! You never know! Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Walter let himself be led to the dining room, which had been redecorated to look like something out of a holiday magazine. Dan knocked on the doorframe lightly and cleared his throat.

“Hi, uh, everybody, this is Walter, my uh… Walter. Walter this is everybody. Laurie and Jon, and my neighbour Adrian, and of course you know Hollis.”

Walter managed a stiff nod. Hollis gestured at the 7-layer dip he was single-handedly devouring.

“Grab a plate and pull up a chair. Try some of Jon’s baked cheese wheel.”

Walter shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to eat at a time like this.

“Not hungry.”

He sat on the chair closest to the door and, by extension, farthest away from the other guests.

“Want anything to drink?” Dan asked.

“Coke.”

“Coming right up.”

With Dan gone, all eyes were on Walter.

“So,” Laurie said at last, “you’re Walter. Dan’s told me a _lot_ about you.”

Walter nodded.

“You’re a butcher, right?”

“Was,” Walter corrected. “Now, a parasite. No job.”

“Oh? What happened?”

Hollis opened his mouth to speak, but Walter shrugged and answered.

“Fell short of professional standards.”

“Dear me, that’s unfortunate. To be let go so close to the holiday season must have been very trying.”

Adrian’s voice immediately got under Walter’s skin. The silken tone sounded more like slime than honey.

“We have a policy of never firing anyone in December at my company.”

“What company’s that?” Hollis piped up, intrigued.

“Oh, you wouldn’t know it by name. It’s a collection of ventures, really. You know the steakhouse that just opened in Times Square?”

“The Michelin Star one?” Laurie asked. Adrian nodded.

“A pet project of mine. Anyhow, we have our own suppliers for all our produce and would never think of turning a worker out so close to Christmas. It’s terrible for morale.”

“Keep the proletariat happy, keep the stakeholders happy, huh?” Hollis said between amuse bouches. Adrian laughed lightly.

“Mm… something like that.”

Jon did not speak at all, his intense stare fixed on the ex-butcher, as though studying him through a microscope. It made the hairs on the back of Walter’s neck stand on end.

“If you like, Walter, was it? I could tell you about the application process for you to work in our produce department. Anyone Dan thinks highly of must be –”

Adrian was cut off by the ringing of a dinner bell. Daniel’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Okay everybody, the turkey is officially ready for carving. Time to eat!”


End file.
